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SOPHIA 


By   STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF.  A  Romance.  With  Frontis- 
piece and  Vignette.     Crown  8vo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE.  A  Romance.  With 
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A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE.  Being  the  Memoirs  of  Gaston 
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UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE.  With  twelve  full-page  Illustrations. 
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MY  LADY  ROTHA.  A  Romance  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 
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FROM   THE  MEMOIRS    OF  A    MINISTER    OF   FRANCE. 

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SHREWSBURY.  A  Romance.  With  twenty-four  Illustrations. 
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THE  RED  COCKADE.  A  Novel.  With  48  Illustrations  by  R. 
Caton  Woodville.     Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

THE  CASTLE  INN.  A  Novel.  With  six  full-page  Illustra- 
tions by  Walter  Appleton  Clark.    Crown  8vo,  $  1.50. 

SOPHIA.  A  Romance.  With  twelve  full-page  Illustrations. 
Crown  Svo,  $1.50. 


New  York:  Longmans,  Green,  and  Co. 


ONE    MINUTE  !  "    SHE   CRIED. 


P.   118. 


SOPHIA 


A   ROMANCE 


BY 


STANLEY   J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  ''THE  CASTLE  INN,"  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THE 
RED  ROBE,"  "MY  LADY  ROTHA,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO. 

91  AND  93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

LONDON    AND    BOMBAY 

1900 


Copyright,  1899 

BY 

STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


Copyright,  1900 

BY 

STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


TROW    DIRECTORY 

PRINTING    AND    BOOKBINDING    COMPANY 

NEW     YORK 


Co 

THE   GRACIOUS  MEMORY 
OF 

JAMES  PAYN 


TR 


1! 

CONTENTS 


s 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

1.  A  Little  Toad 1 

II.  At  Vauxhall 14 

III.  The  Clock-maker 28 

IV.  A  Discovery 42 

V.  The  World  "Well  Lost 54 

VI.  A  Chair  and  a  Coach 68 

VII.  In  Davies  Street 81 

VIII.  Unmasked 95 

IX.  In  Clarges  Row 109 

X.  Sir  Hervey  Takes  the  Field         ....  124 

XI.  The  Tug  op  War 136 

XII.  Don  Quixote 150 

XIII.  The  Welcome  Home 164 

XIV.  The  First  Stage 178 

XV.  A  Squire  op  Dames 190 

XVI.  The  Paved  Ford 204 

XVII.  In  the  Valley 217 

XVIII.  King  Smallpox 230 

XIX.  Lady  Betty's  Fate 242 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.  A  Friend  in  Need 255 

XXI.  The  Strolling  Players 268 

XXII.  Tis  Go  or  Swim 281 

XXIII.  Two  Portraits 293 

XXIV.  Who  Plays,  Pays 307 

XXV.  Repentance  at  Leisure 321 

XXVI.  A  Dragon  Disarmed 334 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  One  minute  ! '  she  cried Frontispiece 

TO   FACE    PAGE 

'  Sir  ! '  Sophia  cried,  her  cheeks  burning        ...        7 
gltocott    .     .    .    stole   forward,  and     .     .    .     leant 

over  the  flushed  features  of  the  unconscious  lad  40 
'  This  must  be — must  be  stopped  at  once  ! '  .  .  .50 
'  Oh,  la  !  I  don't  want  to  stay  ! '  Mrs.  Martha  cried  .  59 
'  He  cannot  ! ' 101 

'  About  the  two  guineas — you  stole  this  morning  '        .     125 

i 

He  stood,  grinning  in  his  finery,  unable  to  say  a  word    137 

Lady  Betty  wasted  no  time  on  words.    She  was  already 

in  the  water  and  wading  across         ....     228 

'  Why,   Betty,'   Sophia   cried   in  astonishment,   '  what 

is  it?' 305 

'  Do  you  sit,  and  i'll  make  you  a  posy  '    .  .    311 

Her  hair    .     .     .     hung   undressed   on   her  neck.     He 
touched  it  gently.    It  was  the  first  caress  he  had 
ever  given  her 342 


SOPHIA 

CHAPTEE  I 

A   LITTLE    TOAD 

In  the  dining-room  of  a  small  house  on  the  east  side  of 
Arlington  Street,  which  at  that  period — 1742 — was  the 
Ministerial  street,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Northey  sat  awaiting 
Sophia.  The  thin  face  of  the  honourable  member  for  Aid- 
bury  wore  the  same  look  of  severity  which  it  had  worn  a 
few  weeks  earlier  on  the  eventful  night  when  he  had  found 
himself  called  upon  to  break  the  ties  of  years  and  vote 
in  the  final  division  against  Sir  Robert;  his  figure,  as  he 
sat  stiffly  expecting  his  sister-in-law,  reflected  the 'attitudes 
of  the  four  crude  portraits  of  dead  Northeys  that  darkened 
the  walls  of  the  dull  little  room.  Mrs.  Northey  on  the 
other  hand  sprawled  in  her  chair  with  the  carelessness  of 
the  fine  lady  fatigued;  she  yawned,  inspected  the  lace  of 
her  negligee,  and  now  held  a  loose  end  to  the  light,  and  now 
pondered  the  number  of  a  lottery  ticket.  At  length,  out 
of  patience,  she  called  fretfully  to  Mr.  Northey  to  ring  the 
bell.    Fortunately,  Sophia  entered  at  that  moment. 

"  In  time,  and  no  more,  miss,"  madam  cried  with  temper. 
Then  as  the  girl  came  forward  timidly,  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,"  Mrs.  Northey  continued,  "  you'll  wear  red  before 
you're  twenty!  You  have  no  more  colour  than  a  china 
figure  this  morning!    What's  amiss  with  you?  " 

1 


2  SOPHIA 

Sophia,  flushing  under  her  brother-in-law's  eyes,  pleaded 
a  headache. 

Her  sister  sniffed.  "Eighteen,  and  the  vapours!"  she 
cried  scornfully.  "  Lord,  it  is  very  evident  raking  don't 
suit  you!  But  do  you  sit  down  now,  and  answer  me,  child. 
What  did  you  say  to  Sir  Hervey  last  night?  " 

"  Nothing,"  Sophia  faltered,  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  "  Mrs.  Northey  repeated,  mimicking  her. 
"  Nothing  !  And  pray,  Miss  Modesty,  what  did  he  say  to 
you  ?  " 

"  Nothing;  or — or  at  least,  nothing  of  moment,"  Sophia 
stammered. 

"  Of  moment!  Oh,  you  know  what's  of  moment,  do 
you  ?  And  whose  fault  was  that,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  Tell 
me  that,  miss  !  " 

Sophia,  seated  stiffly  on  the  chair,  her  sandalled  feet 
drawn  under  her,  looked  downcast  and  a  trifle  sullen,  but 
did  not  answer. 

"  I  ask,  whose  fault  was  that  ?  "  Mrs.  Northey  continued 
impatiently.  "  Do  you  think  to  sit  still  all  your  life,  look- 
ing at  your  toes,  and  waiting  for  the  man  to  fall  into  your 
lap  ?  Hang  you  for  a  natural,  if  you  do  !  It  is  not  that 
way  husbands  are  got,  miss  ! " 

:'  I  don't  want  a  husband,  ma'am  !  "  Sophia  cried,  stung 
at  length  into  speech  by  her  sister's  coarseness. 

"  Oh,  don't  you?  "  Mrs.  Northey  retorted.  "  Don't  you, 
Miss  Innocence  ?  Let  me  tell  you,  I  know  what  you  want. 
You  want  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself  with  that  beggarly, 
grinning,  broad-shouldered  oaf  of  an  Irishman,  that's  al- 
ways at  your  skirts!  That's  what  you  want.  And  he  wants 
your  six  thousand  pounds.  Oh,  you  don't  throw  dust  into 
my  eyes  !  "  Mrs.  Northey  continued  viciously,  "  I've  seen 
you  puling  and  pining  and  making  Wortley  eyes  at  him 
these  three  weeks.  Ay,  and  half  the  town  laughing  at  you. 
But  I'd  have  you  to  know,  miss,  once  for  all,  we  are  not 
going  to  suffer  it  !  " 


A  LITTLE   TOAD  3 

"  My  life,  I  thought  we  agreed  that  I  should  explain  mat- 
ters," Mr.  Northey  said  gently. 

"  Oh,  go  on  then  !  "  madam  cried,  and  threw  herself  back 
in  her  seat. 

"  Only  because  I  think  you  go  a  little  too  far,  my  dear," 
Mr.  Northey  said,  with  a  cough  of  warning;  "  I  am  sure 
that  we  can  count  on  Sophia's  prudence.  You  are  aware, 
child,"  he  continued,  directly  addressing  himself  to  her, 
"  that  your  father's  death  has  imposed  on  us  the — the 
charge  of  your  person,  and  the  care  of  your  interests.  The 
house  at  Cuckfield  being  closed,  and  your  brother  wanting 
three  years  of  full  age,  your  home  must  necessarily  be  with 
us  for  a  time,  and  we  have  a  right  to  expect  that  you  will 
be  guided  by  us  in  such  plans  as  are  broached  for  your  set- 
tlement. Now  I  think  I  am  right  in  saying,"  Mr.  Northey 
continued,  in  his  best  House  of  Commons  manner,  "  that 
your  sister  has  communicated  to  you  the  very  advantageous 
proposal  with  which  my  good  friend  and  colleague  at  Aid- 
bury,  Sir  Hervey  Coke,  has  honoured  us  ?  Ahem  !  Sophia, 
that  is  so,  is  it  not  ?    Be  good  enough  to  answer  me." 

"Yes,  sir,"  Sophia  murmured,  her  eyes  glued  to  the 
carpet. 

"  Very  good.  In  that  case  I  am  sure  that  she  has  not 
failed  to  point  out  to  you  also  that  Sir  Hervey  is  a  baronet 
of  an  old  and  respectable  family,  and  possessed  of  a  com- 
petent estate.  That,  in  a  word,  the  alliance  is  everything 
for  which  we  could  look  on  your  behalf." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Sophia  whispered. 

"  Then,  may  I  ask,"  Mr.  Northey  continued,  setting  a 
hand  on  each  knee,  and  regarding  her  majestically,  "in 
what  respect  you  find  the  match  not  to  your  taste  ?  If 
that  be  so  ?  " 

The  young  girl  slid  her  foot  to  and  fro,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment did  not  answer.  Then,  "  I— I  do  not  wish  to  marry 
him,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 


4  SOPHIA 

"  You  do  not  wish  ?  "  Mrs.  Northey  cried,  unable  to  con- 
tain herself  longer.  "  You  do  not  wish  ?  And  why, 
pray  ?  " 

"  He's — he's  as  old  as  Methuselah  ! "  the  girl  answered 
with  a  sudden  spirit  of  resentment ;  and  she  moved  her 
foot  more  quickly  to  and  fro. 

"  As  old  as  Methuselah  ?  "  Mr.  ISTorthey  answered,  star- 
ing at  her  in  unfeigned  astonishment  ;  and  then,  in  a  tone 
of  triumphant  refutation,  he  continued,  "  Why,  child,  what 
are  you  dreaming  of  ?  He  is  only  thirty-four  !  and  I  am 
thirty-six." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  he  is  old  enough — he  is  nearly  old 
enough  to  be  my  father  !  "  Sophia  muttered  rebelliously. 

Mrs.  Korthey  could  no  longer  sit  by  and  hear  herself 
flouted.  She  knew  very  well  what  was  intended.  She  was 
twenty-nine,  Sophia's  senior  by  eleven  years,  and  she  felt 
the  imputation  that  bounded  harmlessly  off  her  husband's 
unconsciousness.  "  You  little  toad  !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you 
think  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  ?  I  tell  yon,  miss, 
you  would  smart  for  it,  if  I  were  your  mother  !  Thirty- 
four,  indeed;  and  you  call  him  as  old  as  Methuselah!  Oh, 
thank  you  for  nothing,  ma'am  !    I  understand  you." 

"  He's  twice  as  old  as  I  am  !  "  Sophia  whimpered,  bend- 
ing before  the  storm.  And  in  truth  to  eighteen  thirty-four 
seems  elderly  ;  if  not  old. 

"  You  !  You're  a  baby  ! "  Mrs.  Northey  retorted,  her 
face  red  with  passion.  "  How  any  man  of  sense  can  look 
at  you  or  want  you  passes  me  !  But  he  does,  and  if  you 
think  we  are  going  to  sit  by  and  see  our  plans  thwarted 
by  a  chit  of  a  girl  of  your  years,  you  are  mistaken,  miss. 
Sir  Hervey's  vote,  joined  to  the  two  county  votes  which 
my  lord  commands,  and  to  Mr.  North ey's  seat,  will  gain 
my  lord  a  step  in  the  peerage  ;  and  when  Coke  is  married 
to  you,  his  vote  will  be  ours.  As  for  you,  you  white-faced 
puling  thing,  I  should  like  to  know  who  you  are  that  you 


A  LITTLE  TOAD  5 

should  not  be  glad  of  a  good  match  when  it  is  offered  yon  ? 
It  is  a  very  small  thing  to  do  for  your  family." 

"  For  your  family  !  "  Sophia  involuntarily  exclaimed  ; 
the  next  moment  she  could  have  bitten  off  her  tongue. 

Fortunately  a  glance  from  Mr.  Northey,  who  prided  him- 
self on  his  diplomacy,  stayed  the  outburst  that  was  on  his 
wife's  lips.  "  Allow  me,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  And  do  you 
listen  to  me,  Sophia.  Apart  from  his  age,  a  ridiculous  ob- 
jection which  could  only  come  into  the  mind  of  a  school- 
girl, is  there  anything  else  you  have  to  urge  against  Sir 
Hervey  ?  " 

"  He's  as — as  grave  as  death  ! "  Sophia  murmured  tear- 
fully. 

Mr.  Northey  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Is  that  all  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Yes,  but— but " 

"  But  what  ?  But  what,  Sophia  ?  "  Mr.  Northey  re- 
peated, with  a  fine  show  of  fairness.  "  I  suppose  you  allow 
him  to  be  in  other  respects  a  suitable  match  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but — I  do  not  wish  to  marry  him,  sir.  That  is 
all." 

"  In  that,"  Mr.  Northey  said  firmly,  "  you  must  be 
guided  by  us.  We  have  your  interests  at  heart,  your  best 
interests.    And — and  that  should  be  enough  for  you." 

Sophia  did  not  answer,  but  the  manner  in  which  she 
closed  her  lips,  and  kept  her  gaze  fixed  steadfastly  on  the 
lloor,  was  far  from  boding  acquiescence.  Every  feature 
indeed  of  her  pale  face — which  only  a  mass  of  dark  brown 
hair  and  a  pair  of  the  most  brilliant  and  eloquent  eyes 
redeemed  from  the  commonplace — expressed  a  settled  de- 
termination. Mrs.  Northey,  who  knew  something  of  her 
sister's  disposition,  which  was  also  that  of  the  family  in 
general,  discerned  this,  and  could  restrain  herself  no  longer. 

"  You  naughty  girl  ! "  she  cried,  with  something  ap- 
proaching fury.    "  Do  you  think  that  I  don't  know  what 


6  SOPHIA 

is  at  the  bottom  of  this  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that 
you  are  pining  and  sulking  for  that  hulking  Irish  rogue 
that's  the  laughing-stock  of  every  company  his  great  feet 
enter  ?  Lord,  miss,  by  your  leave  I'd  have  you  to  know 
we  are  neither  fools  nor  blind.  I've  seen  your  sighings 
and  oglings,  your  pinings  and  sinkings.  And  so  has  the 
town.  Ay,  you  may  blush  " — in  truth,  Sophia's  cheeks 
were  dyed  scarlet — "  my  naughty  madam  !  Blush  you 
should,  that  can  fancy  a  raw-boned,  uncouth  Teague  a 
fine  woman  would  be  ashamed  to  have  for  a  footman. 
But  you  shan't  have  him.  You  may  trust  me  for  that, 
as  long  as  there  are  bars  and  bolts  in  this  house,  miss." 

"  Sophia,"  Mr.  Northey  said  in  his  coldest  manner,  "  I 
trust  that  there  is  nothing  in  this  ?  I  trust  that  your  sister 
is  misinformed  ?  " 

The  girl,  under  the  lash  of  her  sister's  tongue,  had  risen 
from  her  chair;  she  tried  in  vain  to  recover  her  com- 
posure. 

"  There  was  nothing,  sir,"  she  cried  hysterically.  "  But 
after  this — after  the  words  which  my  sister  has  used  to 
me,  she  has  only  herself  to  thank  if — if  I  please  myself,  and 
take  the  gentleman  she  has  named — or  any  other  gentle- 
man." 

"  Ay,  but  softly,"  Mr.  Northey  rejoined,  with  a  certain 
unpleasant  chill  in  his  tone.  "  Softly,  Sophia,  if  you 
please.  Are  you  aware  that  if  your  brother  marries  under 
age  and  without  his  guardian's  consent,  he  forfeits  ten 
thousand  pounds  in  your  favour  ?  And  as  much  more  to 
your  sister  ?    If  not,  let  me  tell  you  that  it  is  so." 

Sophia  stared  at  him,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  It  is  true,"  Mr.  Northey  continued,  "  that  your  father's 
will  contains  no  provision  for  your  punishment  in  the  like 
case.  But  this  clause  proves  that  he  expected  his  children 
to  be  guided  by  the  advice  of  their  natural  guardians  ;  and 
for  my  part,  Sophia,  I  expect  you  to  be  so  guided.    In  the 


:,|C  3 


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A  LITTLE   TOAD  7 

meantime,  and  that  there  may  he  no  mistake  in  the  matter, 
understand,  if  you  please,  that  I  forbid  you  to  hold  from 
this  moment  any  communication  with  the  person  who  has 
been  named.  If  I  cannot  prescribe  a  match  for  you,  I  can 
at  least  see  that  you  do  not  disgrace  your  family." 

"  Sir  !  "  Sophia  cried,  her  cheeks  burning. 

But  Mr.  Northey,  a  man  of  slow  pulse  and  the  least  possi- 
ble imagination,  returned  her  fiery  look  unmoved.  "  I 
repeat  it,"  he  said  coldly.  "  For  that  and  nothing  else  an 
alliance  with  this — this  person  would  entail.  Let  there  be 
no  misunderstanding  on  that  point.  You  are  innocent  of 
the  world,  Sophia,  and  do  not  understand  these  distinc- 
tions. But  I  am  within  the  truth  when  I  say  that  Mr. 
Hawkesworth  is  known  to  be  a  broken  adventurer,  mov- 
ing upon  sufferance  among  persons  of  condition,  and  own- 
ing a  character  and  antecedents  that  would  not  for  a  mo- 
ment sustain  inquiry." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  "  Sophia  cried  passionately.  "  It 
is  not  known  who  he  is." 

"  He  is  not  one  of  us,"  Mr.  Northey  answered  with  dig- 
nity. "  For  the  rest,  you  are  right  in  saying  that  it  is  not 
known  who  he  is.  I  am  told  that  even  the  name  he  bears 
is  not  his  own." 

"  No,  it  is  not  !  "  Sophia  retorted  ;  and  then  stood  blush- 
ing and  convicted,  albeit  with  an  exultant  light  in  her  eyes. 
No,  his  name  was  not  his  own  !  She  knew  that  from  his 
own  lips  ;  and  knew,  too,  from  his  own  lips,  in  what  a  world 
of  romance  he  moved,  what  a  future  he  was  preparing,  what 
a  triumph  might  be,  nay,  would  be,  his  by-and-by — and 
might  be  hers  !  But  her  mouth  was  sealed  ;  already, 
indeed,  she  had  said  more  than  she  had  the  right  to  say. 
When  Mr.  Northey,  surprised  by  her  acquiescence,  asked 
with  acerbity  how  she  knew  that  Hawkesworth  was  not  the 
man's  name,  and  what  the  man's  name  was,  she  stood  mute. 
"Wild  horses  should  not  draw  that  from  her. 


8  SOPHIA 

But  it  was  natural  that  her  brother-in-law  should  draw 
his  conclusions,  and  his  brow  grew  darker.  "  It  is  plain, 
at  least,  that  you  have  admitted  him  to  a  degree  of  inti- 
macy extremely  improper,"  he  said,  with  more  heat  than  he 
had  yet  exhibited.  "  I  fear,  Sophia,  that  you  are  not  so 
good  a  girl  as  I  believed.  However,  from  this  moment  you 
will  see  that  you  treat  him  as  a  stranger.  Do  you  hear 
me?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Then — then  I  am  not  to  go  with  you  this 
evening  ?  " 

"  This  evening  !  You  mean  to  Vauxhall  ?  And  why 
not,  pray  ?  " 

"  Because — because,  if  I  go  I  must  see  him.  And  if  I 
see  him  I — I  must  speak  to  him,"  Sophia  cried,  her  breast 
heaving  with  generous  resentment.  "  I  will  not  pass  him 
by,  and  let  him  think  me — everything  that  is  base  !  " 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Northey  looked  a  little  nonplussed. 
Then,  "  Well,  you  can — you  can  bow  to  him,"  he  said, 
pluming  himself  on  his  discretion  in  leaving  the  rein  a 
trifle  slack  to  begin.  "  If  he  force  himself  upon  you,  you 
will  rid  yourself  of  him  with  as  little  delay  as  possible. 
The  mode  I  leave  to  you,  Sophia ;  but  speech  with  him 
I  absolutely  forbid.  You  will  obey  in  that  on  pain  of  my 
most  serious  displeasure." 

"  On  pain  of  bread  and  water,  miss  ! "  her  sister  cried 
venomously.  "  That  will  have  more  effect,  I  fancy.  Lord, 
for  my  part,  I  should  die  of  shame  if  I  thought  that  I  had 
encouraged  a  nameless  Irish  rogue  not  good  enough  to  ride 
behind  my  coach.    And  all  the  town  to  know  it." 

Eage  dried  the  tears  that  hung  on  Sophia's  lids.  "  Is 
that  all  ?  "  she  asked,  her  head  high.  "  I  should  like  to  go 
if  that  is  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  is  all,"  Mr.  Northey  answered. 

"  Then— I  may  go  ?  " 

He  appeared  to  hesitate-     For  the  first  time  his  manner 


A  LITTLE   TOAD  9 

betrayed  doubt ;  he  looked  at  his  wife  and  opened  his 
mouth,  then  closed  it.  At  length,  "  Yes,  I  think  so,"  he 
said  pompously.  "  And  I  trust  you  will  regain  our  approba- 
tion by  doing  as  we  wish,  Sophia.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
your  brother's  conduct  at  Cambridge  has  not  been  all  that 
we  could  desire.  I  hope  that  you  will  see  to  it,  and  show 
yourself  more  circumspect.  I  truly  hope  that  you  will  not 
disappoint  us.    Yes,  you  may  go." 

Sophia  waited  for  no  second  permission.  Her  heart 
bursting,  her  cheeks  burning,  she  hurried  from  the  room, 
and  flew  up  the  stairs  to  shut  herself  in  her  chamber.  Here, 
on  the  second  floor,  in  a  room  consecrated  to  thoughts  of 
him  and  dreams  of  him,  where  in  a  secret  nook  behind  the 
bow-fronted  drawer  of  her  toilet  table  lay  the  withered 
flower  he  had  given  her  the  day  he  stole  her  glove,  she  felt 
the  full  wretchedness  of  her  lot.  She  would  see  him  no 
more  !  Her  tears  gushed  forth,  her  bosom  heaved  at  the 
thought.  She  would  see  him  no  more  !  Or  worse,  she 
would  see  him  only  in  public,  at  a  distance  ;  whence  his 
eyes  would  stab  her  for  a  jilt,  a  flirt,  a  cold,  heartless, 
worldly  creature,  unworthy  to  live  in  the  same  world,  un- 
worthy to  breathe  the  same  air  with  Constancy. 

And  he  had  been  so  good  to  her  !  He  had  been  so  watch- 
ful, so  assiduous,  so  delicate,  she  had  fondly,  foolishly 
deemed  his  court  a  secret  from  all. 

The  way  to  her  heart  had  not  been  difficult.  Her  father's 
death  had  cast  her,  a  timid  country  girl,  into  the  vortex  of 
the  town,  where  for  a  time  she  had  shrunk  from  the  whirl  of 
routs  and  masquerades,  the  smirking  beaux  and  loud- 
voiced  misses,  among  whom  she  found  herself.  She  had  sat 
mum  and  abashed  in  companies  where  her  coarser  sister 
ruled  and  ranted;  where  one  had  shunned  and  another  had 
flouted  the  silent,  pale-faced  girl,  whose  eyes  and  hair  and 
tall  slender  shape  just  redeemed  her  from  insignificance. 
Only  Mr.  Hawkesworth,  the  Irishman,  had  discerned  in  her 


10  SOPEIA 

charms  that  in  a  remarkably  short  time  won  his  regards 
and  fixed  his  attentions.  Only  he,  with  the  sensibility  of 
an  unspoiled  Irish  heart,  had  penetrated  the  secret  of  her 
loneliness;  and  in  company  had  murmured  sympathy  in  her 
ear,  and  at  the  opera,  where  he  had  not  the  entree  to  her 
sister's  box,  had  hung  on  her  looks  from  afar,  speaking 
more  sweetly  with  his  fine  eyes  than  Monticelli  or  Amore- 
voli  sang  on  the  stage. 

For  Sir  Hervey,  his  would-be  rival,  the  taciturn,  middle- 
aged  man,  who  was  Hervey  to  half  the  men  about  town, 
and  Coke  to  three-fourths  of  the  women  ;  who  gamed  with 
the  same  nonchalance  with  which  he  made  his  court — he 
might  be  the  pink  of  fashion  in  his  dull  mooning  way,  but 
he  had  nothing  that  caught  her  eighteen-year-old  fancy. 
On  the  contrary  he  had  a  habit  of  watching  her,  when 
Hawkesworth  was  present,  at  the  mere  remembrance  of 
which  her  cheek  flamed.  For  that  alone,  and  in  any  event, 
she  hated  him  ;  and  would  never,  never  marry  him.  They 
might  rob  her  of  her  dear  Irishman  ;  they  might  break  her 
heart — so  her  thoughts  ran  to  the  tremolo  of  a  passionate 
sob  ;  they  might  throw  her  into  a  decline  ;  but  they  should 
never,  never  compel  her  to  take  him!  She  would  live  on 
bread  and  water  for  a  year  first.  She  was  fixed,  fixed,  fixed 
on  that,  and  would  ever  remain  so. 

Meanwhile  downstairs  the  two  who  remained  in  the 
room  she  had  left  kept  silence  until  her  footsteps  ceased 
to  sound  on  the  stairs.  Then  Mr.  Northey  permitted 
his  discontent  to  appear.  "  I  wish,  after  all,  I  had  told 
her,"  he  said,  moving  restlessly  in  his  chair.  "  Hang  it, 
ma'am,  do  you  hear  ?  "  he  continued,  looking  irritably  at 
his  wife,  "  I  wish  I  had  taken  my  own  line,  and  that  is  a 
fact." 

"  Then  you  wish  you  had  been  a  fool,  Mr.  Northey  ! x 
the  lady  answered  with  fine  contempt.  "  Do  you  think 
that  this  silly  girl  would  rest  content,  or  let  us  rest,  until 


A  LITTLE   TOAD  11 

you  had  followed  her  dear  brother  Tom,  and  brought  him 
back  from  his  charmer  ?  Not  she  !  And  for  him,  if  you 
are  thinking  of  him,  he  was  always  a  rude  cub,  and  bound 
for  the  dogs  one  day  or  other.  What  does  it  matter  whether 
he  is  ruined  before  he  is  of  age  or  after  ?  Eh,  Mr. 
Northey  ?  " 

"  It  matters  to  us,"  Mr.  Nbrthey  answered. 

"  It  may  matter  ten  thousand  to  us,  if  we  mind  our  own 
business,"  his  wife  answered  coolly.  "  So  do  you  let  him 
be  for  a  day  or  two." 

"  It  matters  as  much  to  Sophia,"  he  said,  trying  to  find 
excuses  for  himself  and  his  inaction. 

"  And  why  not  ?  There  will  be  so  much  the  more  to 
bind  Coke  to  us." 

"  He  has  plenty  now." 

"  Much  wants  more,  Mr.  Northey." 

"  Of  course  the  thing  may  be  done  already,"  he  argued, 
striving  to  convince  himself.  "  For  all  we  know,  the  match 
is  made,  and  'tis  too  late  to  interfere.  Your  brother  was 
always  wilful  ;  and  it  is  not  likely  the  woman  would  let  him 
go  for  a  word.    On  the  other  hand " 

"  There  is  no  other  hand  ! "  she  cried,  out  of  patience 
with  his  weakness.  "  I  tell  you,  let  be.  Let  the  boy  marry 
whom  he  pleases,  and  when  he  pleases.  'Tis  no  matter  of 
ours." 

"  Still  I  wish  this  tutor  had  not  written  to  us." 

"  If  the  knot  was  not  tied  yesterday,  there  are  persons 
enough  will  tie  it  to-day  for  half  a  guinea  !  "  she  said.  "  It 
is  not  as  if  you  were  his  only  guardian.  His  father  chose 
another  elsewhere.  Let  him  look  to  it.  The  girl  is  charge 
enough  for  us  ;  and,  for  her,  she  benefits  as  much  as  we  do 
if  he's  foolish.  I  wish  that  were  the  worst  of  it.  But  I 
scent  danger,  Mr.  Northey.  I  am  afraid  of  this  great 
Teague  of  hers.  He's  no  Irishman  if  he  doesn't  scent  a 
fortune  a  mile  off.    And  once  let  him  learn  that  she  is  worth 


12  SOPHIA 

sixteen  thousand  pounds  instead  of  six  thousand,  and  he'll 
off  with  her  from  under  our  very  noses." 

"  It's  that  Irish  Eegister  has  done  the  mischief  ! "  Mr. 
Northey  cried,  jumping  up  with  an  oath.  "  She's  in  there, 
in  print  ! " 

"  Under  her  own  name  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  as  a  fortune.    And  her  address." 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Mr.  Northey  ?  Printed  in  the  book, 
is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  ;  as  I  say." 

"  Hang  their  impudence  ! "  his*  wife  cried  in  astonish- 
ment. "  They  ought  to  be  pilloried  !  But  there  is  just 
this,  we  can  show  the  entry  to  the  girl.  And  if  it  don't 
open  her  eyes,  nothing  will.  Do  you  get  a  copy  of  the 
book,  Mr.  Northey,  and  we'll  show  it  to  her  to-morrow, 
and  put  her  on  the  notion  every  Irishman  has  it  by  heart. 
And  as  soon  as  we  can  we  must  get  her  married  to  Coke. 
There'll  be  no  certainty  till  she's  wedded.  'Twould  have 
been  done  this  fortnight  if  he  were  not  just  such  a  mum- 
chance  fool  as  the  girl  herself.  He  may  look  very  wise,  and 
the  town  may  think  him  so.  But  there's  more  than  looking 
wanted  with  a  woman,  Mr.  Northey  ;  and  for  what  I  see 
he's  as  big  a  fool  as  many  that  never  saw  Pall  Mall." 

"  I  have  never  found  him  that,"  Mr.  Northey  answered 
with  a  dry  cough.  He  spoke  with  reason,  for  he  had  more 
than  once,  as  heir  to  a  peerage,  taken  on  himself  to  set  Sir 
Hervey  right;  with  so  conspicuous  a  lack  of  success  that 
he  had  begun  to  suspect  that  his  brother  member's  silence 
was  not  dulness  ;  nay,  that  he  himself  came  late  into  that 
secret.  Or  why  was  Coke  so  well  with  that  great  wit  and 
fashionable,  Hanbury  Williams  ?  With  Henry  Fox,  and 
my  lord  Chesterfield  ?  With  young  Lord  Lincoln,  the  wary 
quarry  of  match-making  mothers,  no  less  than  with  Tom 
Hervey,  against  whom  no  young  virgin,  embarking  on  life, 
failed  of  a  warning  ?    Mr.  Northey  knew  that  in  the  com- 


A  LITTLE   TOAD  13 

pany  of  these,  and  their  like,  he  was  no  favourite,  whilst 
Coke  was  at  home  ;  and  he  hid  with  difficulty  a  sneaking 
fear  of  his  colleague. 

What  a  man  so  highly  regarded  and  so  well  received 
saw  in  a  girl  who,  in  Mr.  Northey's  eyes,  appeared  every 
way  inferior  to  her  loud,  easy,  fashionable  sister,  it  passed 
the  honourable  member  to  conceive.  But  the  thing  was  so. 
Sir  Hervey  had  spoken  the  three  or  four  words  beyond 
which  he  seldom  went — the  venture  had  been  made  ;  and 
now  if  there  was  one  thing  upon  which  Mr.  Northey's 
dogged  mind  was  firmly  fixed,  it  was  that  an  alliance  so 
advantageous  should  not  be  lost  to  the  family. 

"  But  Sophia  is  prudent,"  he  said,  combating  his  own 
fears.  "  She  has  always  been  obedient  and — and  well- 
behaved.  I  am  sure  she's — she's  a  good  girl,  and  will  see 
what  is  right  when  it  is  explained  to  her." 

"  If  she  does  not,  she  will  see  sorrow!  "  his  wife  answered 
truculently.  She  had  neither  forgotten  nor  forgiven  the 
sneer  about  Methuselah.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Mr. 
Northey,"  madam  continued,  "  she  takes  you  in  with  her 
pale,  peaky  face  and  her  round  eyes.  But  if  ever  there  was 
a  nasty,  obstinate  little  toad,  she  is  one.  And  you'll  find  it 
out  by-and-by.    And  so  will  Coke  to  his  cost  some  day." 

"  Still  you  think — we  can  bend  her  this  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she'll  marry  him  ! "  Mrs.  Northey  retorted  con- 
fidently. "  I'll  answer  for  that.  But  I  would  not  be  Coke 
afterwards." 


CHAPTER  II 

AT   VAUXHALL 

In  a  year  when  all  the  world  was  flocking  to  the  new 
Rotunda  in  Ranelagh  Gardens,  Mrs.  Northey  would  be 
particular,  and  have  her  evening  party  to  Vauxhall. 
Open  air  was  the  fashion  of  the  time,  and  it  was  from 
her  seat  at  the  open  window  in  Arlington  Street  that  she 
welcomed  her  guests.  Thence,  as  each  new-comer  appeared 
she  shouted  her  greeting,  often  in  terms  that  convulsed  the 
chairmen  at  the  corner  ;  or  now  and  again,  hanging  far  out, 
she  turned  her  attention  and  wit  to  the  carpenters  working 
late  on  Sir  Robert's  house  next  door,  and  stated  in  good 
round  phrases  her  opinion  of  the  noise  they  made.  When 
nearly  all  her  company  were  assembled,  and  the  room  was 
full  of  women  languishing  and  swimming,  and  of  men 
mincing  and  prattling,  and  tapping  their  snuff-boxes, 
Sophia  stole  in,  and,  creeping  into  a  corner,  hid  herself 
behind  two  jolly  nymphs,  who,  with  hoops  six  feet  wide 
and  cheeks  as  handsome  as  crimson  could  make  them, 
were  bandying  jokes  and  horse-play  with  a  tall  admirer. 
In  this  retreat  Sophia  fancied  that  she  might  hide  her  sad 
looks  until  the  party  set  out ;  and  great  was  her  dismay, 
when,  venturing  at  last  to  raise  her  eyes,  she  discovered  that 
she  had  placed  herself  beside,  nay,  almost  touching  the 
man  whom  of  all  others  she  wished  to  avoid,  the  detested 
Coke  ;  who,  singularly  enough,  had  sought  the  same  retire- 
ment a  few  moments  earlier. 

In  the  confusion  of  the  moment  she  recoiled  a  step  ; 

14 


AT  VAUXHALL  15 

the  events  of  the  day  had  shaken  her  nerves.  Then,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  did  not  see  that  you  were  there/' 
she  stammered. 

"  No/'  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  I  know  you  did  not,  child. 
Or  you  would  have  gone  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Now, 
confess.    Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  As  you  please,  sir/'  she 
said,  "  I  would  not  venture  to  contradict  you,"  and  curtsey- 
ing satirically  she  turned  away  her  face.  At  any  rate  he 
should  lie  in  no  doubt  of  her  feelings. 

He  did  not  answer.  And,  welcome  as  his  silence  was, 
something  like  contempt  of  a  suitor  who  aspired  to  have 
without  daring  to  speak  took  possession  of  her.  Under  the 
influence  of  this  feeling,  embittered  by  the  rating  she  had 
received  that  morning,  she  fell  to  considering  him  out  of 
the  tail  of  her  eye,  but,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  could  not 
deny  that  he  was  personable  ;  that  his  features,  if  a  trifle  set 
and  lacking  vivacity,  were  good,  and  his  bearing  that  of  a 
gentleman  at  ease  in  his  company.  Before  she  had  well 
weighed  him,  however,  or  done  more  than  compare  him 
with  the  fop  who  stood  before  her,  and  whose  muff  and 
quilted  coat,  long  queue  and  black  leather  stock  were  in 
the  extreme  of  the  fashion,  Sir  Hervey  spoke  again. 

"  Why  does  it  not  please  you  ?  "  he  asked,  almost  list- 
lessly. 

"  To  do  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  To  be  beside  me." 

"  I  did  not  say  it  did  not,"  she  answered,  looking  stiffly 
the  other  way. 

"  But  it  does  not,"  he  persisted.  "  I  suppose,  child,  your 
sister  has  told  you  what  my  views  are  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  what  do  you  say  ?  "  he  murmured. 

"  That — that  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  but  they  are 
not  mine  ! "  Sophia  answered,  with  a  rush  of  words  and 


16  SOPHIA 

colour  ;    and,  punished  as  she  had  been  that  morning,  it 
must  be  confessed,  she  cruelly  enjoyed  the  stroke. 

For  a  moment  only.  Then  to  her  astonishment  and  dis- 
may Sir  Hervey  laughed.  "  That  is  what  you  say  now,"  he 
answered  lightly.  "  What  will  you  say  if,  by-and-by,  when 
we  know  one  another  better,  we  get  on  as  well  together  as — 
as  Lady  Sophia  there,  and " 

"  And  Lord  Lincoln  ?  "  she  cried,  seeing  that  he  hesi- 
tated.   "Never!" 

"  Indeed!  "  he  retorted.  "  But,  pray,  what  do  you  know 
about  Lord  Lincoln  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  know  no  scandal  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  would  prefer  you  to  know  as  little  as  possible,"  he 
answered  coolly  ;  in  the  tone  she  fancied  which  he  would 
have  used  had  she  been  already  his  property.  "  And  there 
is  another  thing  I  would  also  prefer  you  did  not  know,"  he 
continued. 

"  Pray,  what  is  that  ?  "  she  cried,  openly  scornful ;  and 
she  flirted  her  fan  a  little  faster. 

"  Mr.  Hawkesworth." 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks.  This  was  too  much. 
"Are  you  jealous?  or  only  impertinent?"  she  asked,  her 
voice  not  less  furious  because  it  was  low  and  guarded. 
"  How  noble,  how  chivalrous,  to  say  behind  a  gentleman's 
back  what  you  would  not  dare  to  say  to  his  face  !  " 

Sir  Hervey  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  He  is  not  a  gen- 
tleman," he  said.  "  He  is  not  one  of  us,  and  he  is  not  fit 
company  for  you.  I  do  not  know  what  story  he  has  told 
you,  nor  what  cards  he  has  played,  but  I  know  that  what  I 
say  is  true.  Be  advised,  child,"  he  continued  earnestly, 
"  and  look  on  him  coldly  when  you  see  him  next.  Be  sure 
if  you  do  not " 

"  You  will  speak  to  my  sister  ?  "  she  cried.  "  If  you 
have  not  done  it  already  ?  Lord,  sir,  I  congratulate  you. 
I'm  sure  you  have  discovered  quite  a  new  style  of  wooing. 


AT  VAVXHALL  17 

Next,  I  suppose,  you  will  have  me  sent  to  my  room,  and  put 
on  bread  and  water  for  a  week  ?  Or  buried  in  a  parsonage 
in  the  country  with  Tillotson's  Sermons  and  the  '  Holy 
Living '  ?  " 

"  I  spoke  to  you  as  I  should  speak  to  my  sister," 
Sir  Hervey  said,  with  something  akin  to  apology  in  his 
tone. 

"  Say,  rather,  as  you  would  speak  to  your  daughter  ! " 
she  replied,  quick  as  lightning  ;  and,  trembling  with  rage, 
she  drove  home  the  shaft  with  a  low  curtsey.  "  To  be 
sure,  sir,  now  I  think  of  it,  the  distance  between  us  justifies 
you  in  giving  me  what  advice  you  please." 

He  winced  at  last,  and  was  even  a  trifle  out  of  coun- 
tenance. But  he  did  not  answer,  and  she,  furiously  angry, 
turned  her  back  on  him,  and  looked  the  other  way.  Young 
as  she  was,  all  the  woman  in  her  rose  in  revolt  against  the 
humiliation  of  being  advised  in  such  a  matter  by  a  man. 
She  could  have  struck  him.  She  hated  him.  And  they 
were  all  in  the  same  story.  They  were  all  against  her  and 
her  dear  Irishman,  who  alone  understood  her.  Tears  rose 
in  Sophia's  eyes  as  she  pictured  her  present  loneliness  and 
her  happiness  in  the  past ;  as  she  recalled  the  old  home 
looking  down  the  long  avenue  of  chestnut  trees,  the  dogs, 
the  horses,  the  boisterous  twin  brother,  and  the  father  who 
by  turns  had  coarsely  chidden  and  fondly  indulged  her. 
In  her  loss  of  all  this,  in  a  change  of  life  as  complete  as  it 
was  sudden,  she  had  found  one  only  to  comfort  her,  one 
only  who  had  not  thought  the  whirl  of  strange  pleasures  a 
sufficient  compensation  for  a  home  and  a  father.  One  only 
who  had  read  her  silence,  and  pitied  her  inexperience.  'And 
him  they  would  snatch  from  her  !    Him  they  would 

But  at  this  point  her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  gen- 
eral movement  towards  the  door.  Bent  on  an  evening's 
frolic  the  party  issued  into  Arlington  Street  with  loud 
laughter  and  louder  voices,  and  in  a  moment  were  gaily  de- 
2 


18  SOPHIA 

scending  St.  James's  Street.  One  or  two  of  the  elder  ladies 
took  chairs,  but  the  greater  part  walked,  the  gentlemen 
with  hats  under  their  arms  and  canes  dangling  from  their 
wrists,  the  more  foppish  with  muffs.  Passing  down  St. 
James's,  where  Betty,  the  fruit  woman,  with  a  couple  of 
baskets  of  fruit,  was  added  to  the  company,  they  crossed 
the  end  of  Pall  Mall,  now  inviting  a  recruit,  after  the  easy 
fashion  of  the  day,  and  now  hailing  a  friend  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  street.  Thence,  by  the  Mall  and  the  Horse 
Guards,  and  so  to  the  Whitehall  Stairs,  where  boats  were 
waiting  for  them  on  the  grey  evening  surface  of  the  broad 
river. 

Sophia  found  herself  compelled  to  go  in  the  same  boat 
with  Sir  Hervey,  but  she  took  good  heed  to  ensconce  her- 
self at  a  distance  from  him  ;  and,  successful  in  this,  sat  at 
her  end,  moody,  and  careless  of  appearances.  There  was 
singing  and  a  little  romping  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  where 
the  ladies  principally  sat,  and  where  their  hoops  called  for 
some  arrangement.  Presently  a  pert  girl,  Lady  Betty  Coch- 
rane, out  at  sixteen,  and  bent  on  a  husband  before  she  was 
seventeen,  marked  Sophia's  silence,  nudged  those  about  her, 
and  took  on  herself  to  rally  the  girl. 

"  La,  miss,  you  must  have  been  at  a  Quakers'  meet- 
ing !  "  she  cried,  simpering.  "  It  is  easy  to  see  where  your 
thoughts  are." 

"  Where  ?  "  Sophia  murmured,  abashed  by  this  public 
notice. 

"I  believe  there  is  very  good  acting  in — Doblin!"  the 
provoking  creature  answered,  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  and  a  sentimental  air;  and  the  ladies  tittered  and 
the  gentlemen  smiled.  "  Have  you  ever  been  to — Dob- 
lin, miss?"  she  continued,  with  a  look  that  winged  the 
innuendo. 

Sophia,  her  face  on  fire,  did  not  answer. 

"  Oh,  la,  miss,  you  are  not  offended,  I  hope  ! "  the  tor- 


AT  VAUXHALL  19 

mentor  cried  politely.  "  Sure,  I  thought  the  gentleman 
had  spoken,  and  all  was  arranged.    To  be  sure — 

"  O'Kourke's  noble  fare 
Will  ne'er  be  forgot 
By  those  who  were  there, 
And  those  who  were  not! 

And  those  who  were  not!"  she  hummed  again,  with  a  wink 
that  drove  the  ladies  to  hide  their  mirth  in  their  handker- 
chiefs. "  A  fine  man,  O'Eourke,  and  I  have  heard  that  he 
was  an  actor  in — Doblin  !  "  the  little  tease  continued. 

Sophia,  choking  with  rage,  and  no  match  for  her  town- 
bred  antagonist,  could  find  not  a  word  to  answer  ;  and  worse 
still,  she  knew  not  where  to  look.  Another  moment  and  she 
might  even  have  burst  into  tears,  a  mishap  which  would 
have  disgraced  her  for  ever  in  that  company.  But  at  the 
critical  instant  a  quiet  voice  at  the  stern  was  heard,  quot- 
ing— 

"  Whom  Simplicetta  loves  the  town  would  know, 
Mark  well  her  knots,  and  name  the  happy  beau!  " 

On  which  it  was  seen  that  it  is  one  thing  to  tease  and 
another  to  be  teased.  Lady  Betty  swung  round  in  a  rage, 
and  without  a  word  attacked  Sir  Hervey  with  her  fan  with 
a  violence  that  came  very  near  to  upsetting  the  boat.  "  How 
dare  you-,  you  horrid  man  ?  "  she  cried,  when  she  thought 
she  had  beaten  him  enough.  "  I  wish  there  were  no  men 
in  the  world,  I  declare  I  do!  It's  a  great  story,  you  ugly 
thing!    If  Mr.  Hesketh  says  I  gave  him  a  knot,  he  is  just 


A  shout  of  laughter  cut  her  short.  Too  late  she  saw 
that  she  had  betrayed  herself,  and  she  stamped  furiously 
on  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  "  He  cut  it  off!  "  she  shrieked, 
raising  her  voice  above  the  laughter.    "  He  cut  it  off!    He 


20  SOPHIA 

would  cut  it  off!  'Tis  a  shame  you  will  not  believe  me.  I 
say " 

A  fresh  peal  of  laughter  drowned  her  voice,  and  brought 
the  boat  to  the  landing-place. 

"  All  the  same,  Lady  Betty,"  the  nearest  girl  said  as  they 
prepared  to  step  out,  "  you'd  better  not  let  your  mother 
hear,  or  you'll  go  milk  cows,  my  dear,  in  the  country!  Lord, 
you  little  fool,  the  boy's  not  worth  a  groat,  and  should  be 
at  school  by  rights!  " 

Miss  Betty  did  not  answer,  but  cocking  her  chin  with 
disdain,  which  made  her  look  prettier  than  ever,  stepped 
out,  sulking.  Sophia  followed,  her  cheeks  a  trifle  cooler 
than  they  had  been;  and  the  party,  once  more  united,  pro- 
ceeded on  foot  from  the  river  to  the  much-praised  groves 
of  Pleasure  ;  where  ten  thousand  lamps  twinkled  and 
glanced  among  the  trees,  or  outlined  the  narrowing  avenue 
that  led  to  the  glittering  pavilion.  In  the  wide  and  open 
space  before  this  Palace  of  Aladdin  a  hundred  gay  and 
lively  groups  were  moving  to  and  fro  to  the  strains  of  the 
band,  or  were  standing  to  gaze  at  the  occupants  of  the 
boxes;  who,  sheltered  from  the  elements,  and  divided  from 
the  humbler  visitors  by  little  gardens,  supped  al  fresco, 
their  ears  charmed  by  music,  and  their  eyes  entertained  by 
the  ever-changing  crowd  that  moved  below  them. 

Two  of  the  best  boxes  had  been  retained  for  Mrs. 
Northey's  party,  but  before  they  proceeded  to  them  her 
company  chose  to  stroll  up  and  down  a  time  or  two,  divert- 
ing themselves  with  the  humours  of  the  place  and  the  even- 
ing. More  than  once  Sophia's  heart  stood  still  as  they 
walked.  She  fancied  that  she  saw  Hawkesworth  approach- 
ing, that  she  distinguished  his  form,  his  height,  his  face 
amid  the  crowd;  and  conscious  of  the  observant  eyes  around 
her,  as  well  as  of  her  sister's  displeasure,  she  knew  not  where 
to  look  for  embarrassment.  On  each  occasion  it  turned  out 
that  she  was  mistaken,  and  to  delicious  tremors  succeeded 


AT   VAUXHALL  21 

the  chill  of  a  disappointment  almost  worse  to  bear.  After 
all,  she  reflected,  if  she  must  dismiss  him,  here  were  a  hun- 
dred opportunities  of  doing  so  in  greater  freedom  than  she 
could  command  elsewhere.  The  turmoil  of  the  press 
through  which  they  moved,  now  in  light  and  now  in 
shadow,  now  on  the  skirts  of  the  romantic,  twilit  grove,  and 
now  under  the  blaze  of  the  pavilion  lamps,  favoured  the 
stolen  word,  the  kind  glance,  the  quick-breathed  sigh.  But 
though  he  knew  that  she  was  to  be  there,  though  of  late  he 
had  seldom  failed  her  in  such  public  resorts  as  this,  he  did 
not  appear;  and  by-and-by  her  company  left  the  parade, 
and,  entering  the  boxes,  fell  to  mincing  chickens  in  china 
bowls,  and  cooking  them  with  butter  and  water  over  a  lamp, 
all  with  much  romping  and  scolding,  and  some  kissing  and 
snatching  of  white  fingers,  and  such  a  fire  of  jests  and 
laughter  as  soon  drew  a  crowd  to  the  front  of  the  box,  and 
filled  the  little  gardens  on  either  side  of  them  with  staring 
groups. 

Gayest,  pertest,  most  reckless  of  all,  Lady  Betty  was 
in  her  glory.  Never  was  such  a  rattle  as  she  showed  herself. 
Her  childish  treble  and  shrill  laugh,  her  pretty  flushed  face 
and  tumbled  hair  were  everywhere.  Apparently  bent  on 
punishing  Coke  for  his  interference  she  never  let  him  rest, 
with  the  result  that  Sophia,  whose  resentment  still  smoul- 
dered, was  free  to  withdraw  to  the  back  of  the  box,  and 
witness  rather  than  share  the  sport  that  went  forward.    To 

this  a  new  zest  was  given  when  Lord  P ,  who  had  been 

dining  at  a  tavern  on  the  river,  arrived  very  drunk,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  harangue  the  crowd  from  the  front  of  the  box. 

Sophia's  seat  at  the  back  was  beside  the  head  of  the  half- 
dozen  stairs  that  descended  to  the  gardens.  The  door  at  her 
elbow  was  open.  On  a  sudden,  while  the  hubbub  was  at  its 
height,  and  a  good  half  of  the  party  were  on  their  feet 
before  her — some  encouraging  his  lordship  to  fresh  va- 
garies, and  others  striving  to  soothe  him — she  heard  a 


22  SOPHIA 

stealthy  hist!  hist!  in  the  doorway  heside  her,  as  if  some  one 
sought  to  gain  her  attention.  With  Hawkesworth  in  her 
mind  she  peered  that  way  in  trembling  apprehension;  im- 
mediately a  little  white  note  dropped  lightly  at  her  feet,  and 
she  had  a  glimpse  of  a  head  and  shoulders,  withdrawn  as 
soon  as  seen. 

With  a  tumultuous  feeling  between  shame  and  joy, 
Sophia,  who,  up  to  this  moment,  had  had  nothing  clan- 
destine on  her  conscience,  slipped  her  foot  over  the  note 
and  glanced  round  to  see  if  any  one  had  seen  her.  That 
moment  an  eager  childish  voice  cried  in  her  ear,  "  Give 
me  that!  Give  it  me!"  And  then,  more  urgently,  "Do 
you  hear?    It  is  mine!    Please  give  it  me!  " 

The  voice  was  Lady  Betty's;  and  her  flushed  pleading 
face  backed  the  appeal.  At  which,  and  all  it  meant,  it  is 
not  to  be  denied  that  a  little  malice  stirred  in  Sophia's 
breast.  The  chit  had  so  tormented  her  an  hour  earlier, 
had  so  held  her  up  to  ridicule,  so  shamed  her.  It  was  no 
wonder  she  was  inclined  to  punish  her  now.  "  Yours, 
child,"  she  said,  looking  coldly  at  her.    "  Impossible." 

"  Yes,  miss.  Please — please  give  it  me — at  once,  please, 
before  it  is  too  late." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall,"  Sophia  answered  virtu- 
ously, from  the  height  of  her  eighteen  years.  "  Children 
have  no  right  to  receive  notes.  I  ought  to  give  it  to  your 
mother."  Then,  with  an  unexpected  movement,  she 
stooped  and  possessed  herself  of  the  folded  scrap  of  paper. 
"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  not,"  she  continued. 

Lady  Betty's  face  was  piteous.  "  If  you  do,  I — I  shall  be 
sent  into  the  country,"  she  panted.  "  I — I  don't  know  what 
they'll  do  to  me.    Oh,  please,  please,  will  you  give  it  me!  " 

Sophia  had  a  kindly  nature,  and  the  girl's  distress  ap- 
pealed to  her.    But  it  appealed  in  two  ways. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  give  it  you,"  she  answered  firmly.  "  But 
I  shall  not  tell  your  mother,  either.    I  shall  tear  it  up.  You 


AT  VAUXHALL  23 

are  too  young,  you  little  baby,  to  do  this!  "  And  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  she  tore  the  note  into  a  dozen  pieces  and 
dropped  them. 

Lady  Betty  glared  at  her  between  relief  and  rage.  At 
last  "Cat!  Cat!';  she  whispered  with  childish  spite. 
"  Thank  you  for  nothing,  ma'am.  I'll  pay  you  by-and-by, 
see  if  I  don't! "  And  with  a  spring,  she  was  back  at  the 
front  of  the  box,  her  laugh  the  loudest,  her  voice  the  fresh- 
est, her  wit  the  boldest  and  most  impertinent  of  all.  Sophia, 
who  fancied  that  she  had  made  an  enemy,  did  not  notice 
that  more  than  once  this  madcap  looked  her  way;  nor  that 
in  the  midst  of  the  wildest  outbursts  she  had  an  eye  for 
what  happened  in  her  direction. 

Sophia,  indeed,  had  food  for  thought  more  important 
than  Lady  Betty,  for  the  girl  had  scarcely  left  her  side  when 
Mrs.  Northey  came  to  her,  shook  her  roughly  by  the  shoul- 
der— they  had  direct  ways  in  those  days — and  asked  her  in 
a  fierce  whisper  if  she  were  going  to  sulk  there  all  the  even- 
ing.    Thus  adjured,  Sophia  moved  reluctantly  to  a  front 

seat  at  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  box.    Lord  P had 

been  suppressed,  but  broken  knots  of  people  still  lingered 
before  the  garden  of  the  box  expecting  a  new  escapade.  To 
the  right,  in  the  open,  fireworks  were  being  let  off,  and  the 
grounds  in  that  direction  were  as  light  as  in  the  day.  Sud- 
denly, Sophia's  eyes,  roving  moodily  hither  and  thither, 
became  fixed.  She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  surprise, 
which  must  have  been  heard  by  her  companions  had  they 
not  been  taken  up  at  that  moment  with  the  arrest  of  a  cut- 
purse  by  two  thief-takers,  a  drama  which  was  going  forward 
on  the  left. 

"There's — there's  Tom!"  she  cried,  her  astonishment 
extreme,  since  Tom  should  have  been  at  Cambridge.  And 
raising  her  voice  she  shouted  "  Tom!    Tom!  " 

Her  brother  did  not  hear.  He  was  moving  across  the 
open  lighted  space,  some  fifteen  paces  from  the  box;  a 


handsome  boy,  foppishly  dressed,  moving  with  the  affected 
indifference  of  a  very  young  dandy.  Sophia  glanced  round 
in  an  agony  of  impatience,  and  found  that  no  one  was 
paying  any  attention  to  her;  there  was  no  one  she  could  send 
to  call  him.  She  saw  that  in  a  twinkling  he  would  be  lost 
in  the  crowd,  and,  acting  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  she 
darted  to  the  stairs,  which  were  only  two  paces  from  her, 
and  flew  down  them  to  overtake  him.  Unfortunately,  she 
tripped  at  the  bottom  and  almost  fell,  lost  a  precious  in- 
stant, and  lost  Tom.  When  she  reached  the  spot  where  she 
had  last  seen  him,  and  looked  round,  her  brother  was  not 
to  be  seen. 

Or  yes,  there  he  was,  in  the  act  of  vanishing  down  one 
of  the  dim  alleys  that  led  into  the  grove.  Half  laughing, 
half  crying,  innocently  anticipating  his  surprise  when  he 
should  see  her,  Sophia  sped  after  him.  He  turned  a  corner 
■ — the  place  was  a  maze  and  dimly  lighted — she  followed 
him;  she  thought  he  met  some  one,  she  hurried  on,  and  the 
next  moment  was  all  but  in  the  arms  of  Hawkesworth. 

"Sophia!"  the  Irishman  cried,  pressing  his  hat  to  his 
heart  as  he  bowed  before  her.  "  Oh,  my  angel,  that  I 
should  be  so  blest!     This  is  indeed  a  happy  meeting." 

But  she  was  far  at  the  moment  from  thinking  of  him. 
Her  brother  occupied  her  whole  mind.  "  Where  is  he," 
she  cried,  looking  every  way.  "  Where  is  Tom?  Mr. 
Hawkesworth,  you  must  have  seen  him.  He  must  have 
passed  you." 

"Seen  whom,  ma'am?"  her  admirer  asked  with  eager 
devotion.  He  was  tall,  with  a  certain  florid  grace  of  car- 
riage; and  ready,  for  his  hand  was  on  his  heart,  and  his 
eyes  expressed  the  joy  he  felt,  almost  before  she  knew  who 
stood  before  her.  "  If  it  is  any  one  I  know^make  me  happy 
by  commanding  me.  If  he  be  at  the  ends  of  the  earth,  I 
will  bring  him  back." 

"  It  is  my  brother!  " 


AT  VAVXHALL  25 

"Your  brother?" 

"  Yes — but  you  would  not  know  him,"  she  cried,  stamp- 
ing her  foot  with  impatience.    "  How  annoying!  " 

"  Not  know  him?  "  he  answered  gallantly.  "  Oh,  ma'am, 
how  little  you  know  me ! "  And  Hawkesworth  extended 
his  arm  with  a  gesture  half  despairing,  half  reproachful. 
"  How  little  you  enter  into  my  feelings  if  you  think  that  I 
should  not  know  your  brother!  My  tongue  I  know  is 
clumsy,  and  says  little,  but  my  eyes  " — and  certainly  they 
dwelt  boldly  enough  on  her  blushing  face,  "  my  eyes  must 
inform  you  more  correctly  of  my  feelings." 

"  Please,  please  do  not  talk  like  that!  "  she  cried  in  a 
low  voice,  and  she  wrung  her  hands  in  distress.  "  I  saw 
my  brother,  and  I  came  down  to  overtake  him,  and — and 
somehow  I  have  missed  him." 

"  But  I  thought  that  he  was  at  Cambridge?  "  he  said. 

"  He  should  be,"  she  replied.  "  But  it  was  he.  It  was 
he  indeed.  I  ran  to  catch  him,  and  I  have  missed  him,  and 
I  must  go  back  at  once.  If  you  please,  I  must  go  back  at 
once." 

"  In  one  moment  you  shall!  "  he  cried,  barring  the  road, 
but  with  so  eloquent  a  look  and  a  tone  so  full  of  admiration 
that  she  could  not  resent  the  movement.  "  In  one  moment 
you  shall.  But,  my  angel,  heaven  has  sent  you  to  my  side, 
heaven  has  taken  pity  on  my  passion,  and  given  me  this 
moment  of  delight — will  you  be  more  cruel  and  snatch  it 
from  me?  Nay,  but,  sweet,"  he  continued  with,  ardour, 
making  as  if  he  would  kneel,  and  take  possession  of  her 
hand,  "  sweetest  one,  say  that  you,  too,  are  glad!    Say " 

"  Mr.  Hawkesworth,  I  am  glad,"  she  murmured,  trem- 
bling; while  her  face  burned  with  blushes.  "  For  it  gives 
me  an  opportunity  I  might  otherwise  have  lacked  of — of 
— oh,  I  don't  know  how  I  can  say  it!  " 

"  Say  what,  madam?  " 

"  How  I  can  take — take  leave  of  you,"  she  murmured, 
turning  away  her  head. 


26  SOPHIA 

"  Take  leave  of  me?  "  he  cried.    "  Take  leave  of  me?  " 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes!  Believe  me,  Mr.  Hawkesworth,"  Sophia 
continued,  beginning  to  stammer  in  her  confusion,  "  I  am 
not  ungrateful  for  your  attentions,  I  am  not,  indeed,  un- 
grateful, but  we — we  must  part." 

"  Never! "  he  cried,  rising  and  looking  down  at  her. 
"  Never!  It  is  not  your  heart  that  speaks  now,  or  it  speaks 
but  a  lesson  it  has  learned." 

Sophia  was  silent. 

"  It  is  your  friends  who  would  part  us,"  he  continued, 
with  stern  and  bitter  emphasis.  "  It  is  your  cold-blooded, 
politic  brother-in-law;  it  is  your  proud  sister " 

"  Stay,  sir,"  Sophia  said  unsteadily.    "  She  is  my  sister." 

"She  is;  but  she  would  part  us!"  he  retorted.  "Do 
you  think  that  I  do  not  understand  that?  Do  you  think 
that  I  do  not  know  why,  too?  They  see  in  me  only  a  poor 
gentleman.  I  cannot  go  to  them,  and  tell  them  what  I  have 
told  you!  I  cannot,"  he  continued,  with  a  gesture  that  in 
the  daylight  might  have  seemed  a  little  theatrical,  but  in 
the  dusk  of  the  alley  and  to  a  girl's  romantic  perceptions 
commended  itself  gallantly  enough,  "  put  my  life  in  their 
hands  as  I  have  put  it  in  yours!  I  cannot  tell  them  that 
the  day  will  come  when  Plomer  Hawkesworth  will  stand  on 
the  steps  of  a  throne  and  enjoy  all  that  a  king's  gratitude 
can  confer.  When  he  who  now  runs  daily,  nightly,  hourly 
the  risk  of  Layer's  fate,  whose  head  may  any  morning  rot  on 
Temple  Bar  and  his  limbs  on  York  Gates " 

Sophia  interrupted  him;  she  could  bear  no  more.  "  Oh, 
no,  no!"  she  cried,  shuddering  and  covering  her  eyes. 
"God  forbid!    God  forbid,  sir!    Rather " 

"  Bather  what,  sweet?  "  he  cried,  and  he  caught  her  hand 
in  rapture. 

"  Rather  give  up  this — this  dangerous  life,"  she  sobbed, 
overcome  by  the  horror  of  the  things  his  words  had  con- 
jured up.    "  Let  others  tread  such  dangerous  ways  and  run 


AT  VAUXHALL  27 

such  risks.  Give  up  the  Jacobite  cause,  Mr.  Hawkesworth, 
if  you  love  me  as  you  say  you  do,  and  I " 

"Yes?  Yes?"  he  cried;  and  across  his  handsome  face, 
momentarily  turned  from  her  as  if  he  would  resist  her 
pleading,  there  crept  a  look  half  of  derision,  half  of 
triumph.    "  What  of  you,  sweet?  " 

But  her  reply  was  never  spoken,  for  as  he  uttered  the 
word  the  fireworks  died  down  with  startling  abruptness, 
plunging  the  alley  in  which  they  stood  into  gloom.  The 
change  recalled  the  girl  to  a  full  and  sudden  sense  of  her 
position;  to  its  risks  and  to  its  consequences,  should  her 
absence,  even  for  a  moment,  be  discovered.  Wringing  her 
hands  in  distress,  in  place  of  the  words  that  had  been  on 
her  lips,  "  Oh,  I  must  go! "  she  cried.  "  I  must  get  back 
at  once!  "    And  she  looked  for  help  to  her  lover. 

He  did  not  answer  her,  and  she  turned  from  him,  fearing 
he  might  try  to  detain  her.  But  she  had  not  taken  three 
steps  before  she  paused  in  agitation,  uncertain  in  the  dark- 
ness which  way  she  had  come.  A  giggling,  squealing  girl 
ran  by  her  into  the  grove,  followed  by  a  man;  at  the  same 
moment  a  distant  fanfare  of  French  horns,  with  the  con- 
fused noise  of  a  multitude  of  feet  trampling  the  earth  at 
once,  announced  that  the  entertainment  was  over,  and  that 
the  assembly  was  beginning  to  leave  the  gardens. 

Sophia's  heart  stood  still.  What  if  she  were  missed? 
Worse  still,  what  if  she  were  left  behind?  "  Oh,"  she  cried, 
turning  again  to  him,  her  hands  outstretched,  "  which  is 
the  way?  Mr.  Hawkesworth,  please,  please  show  me  the 
way!    Please  take  me  to  them!  " 

But  the  Irishman  did  not  move. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   CLOCK-MAKER 

It  even  seemed  to  Sophia  that  his  face,  as  he  stood  watch- 
ing her,  took  on  a  smirk  of  satisfaction,  faint,  but  odious; 
and  in  that  moment,  and  for  the  moment,  she  came  near  to 
hating  him.  She  knew  that  in  the  set  in  which  she  moved 
much  might  be  overlooked,  and  daily  and  hourly  was  over- 
looked, in  the  right  people.  But  to  be  lost  at  Vauxhall  at 
midnight,  in  the  company  of  an  unauthorised  lover — this 
had  a  horribly  clandestine  sound;  this  should  be  sufficient  to 
blacken  the  fame  of  a  poor  maid — or  her  country  education 
was  at  fault.  And  knowing  this,  and  hearing  the  confused 
sounds  of  departure  rise  each  moment  louder  and  more  im- 
portunate, the  girl  grew  frantic  with  impatience. 

"  Which  way?  Which  way?  "  she  cried.  "  Do  ypu  hear 
me?  Which  way  are  the  boxes,  Mr.  Hawkesworth?  You 
know  which  way  I  came.  Am  I  to  think  you  a  dolt,  sir,  or — 
or  what?  " 

"  Or  what?  "  he  repeated,  grinning  feebly.  To  be  candid, 
the  occasion  had  not  been  foreseen,  and  the  Irishman, 
though  of  readiest  wit,  could  not  on  the  instant  make  up 
his  mind  how  he  would  act. 

"  Or  a  villain?  "  she  cried,  with  a  furious  glance.  And 
in  the  effort  to  control  herself,  the  ivory  fan-sticks  snapped 
in  her  small  fingers  as  if  they  had  been  of  glass.  "  Take  me 
back  this  instant,  sir,"  she  continued,  her  head  high,  "  or 
never  presume  to  speak  to  me  again! " 

What  he  would  have  said  to  this  is  uncertain,  for  the 

28 


THE   CLOCK-MAKER  29 

good  reason  that  before  he  answered,  two  men  appeared  at 
the  end  of  the  alley.  Catching  the  sheen  of  Sophia's  hoop 
skirt,  where  it  glimmered  light  against  the  dark  of  the 
trees,  they  espied  the  pair,  took  them  for  a  pair  of  lovers, 
and  with  a  whoop  of  drunken  laughter  came  towards  them. 

One  was  Lord  P ,  no  soberer  than  before;  the  other  a 

brother  buck  flushed  with  wine  to  the  same  pitch  of  in- 
solence, and  ready  for  any  folly  or  mischief.  Crying  "  So 
ho!  A  petticoat!  A  petticoat!"  the  two  Mohocks  joined 
hands,  and  with  a  tipsy  view-halloa!  swept  down  the  green 
walk,  expecting  to  carry  all  before  them. 

But  it  was  in  such  an  emergency  as  this  that  the  Irish- 
man was  at  his  best.  Throwing  himself  between  the  shrink- 
ing, frightened  girl  and  the  onset  of  the  drunken  rakes,  he 
raised  his  cane  with  an  air  so  determined  that  the  assail- 
ants thought  better  of  their  plan,  and,  pausing  with  a  volley 
of  drunken  threats,  parted  hands  and  changed  their  scheme 
of  attack.  While  onq  prepared  to  rush  in  and  overturn  the 
man,  the  other  made  a  feint  aside,  and,  thrusting  himself 
through  the  shrubs,  sprang  on  the  girl.  Sophia  screamed, 
and  tried  to  free  herself;  but  scream  and  effort  were  alike 
premature.  With  a  rapid  twirl  Hawkesworth  avoided  my 
lord's  rush,  caught  him  by  the  waist  as  he  blundered  by, 
and,  swinging  him  off  his  legs,  flung  him  crashing  among 
the  undergrowth.  Then,  whipping  out  his  sword,  he 
pricked  the  other  who  had  seized  Sophia,  in  the  fleshy  part 
of  the  shoulder,  and  forced  him  to  release  her;  after  which, 
plying  his  point  before  the  bully's  eyes,  he  drove  him 
slowly  back  and  back.  Now  the  man  shrieked  and  flinched 
as  the  glittering  steel  menaced  his  face;  now  he  poured 
forth  a  volley  of  threats  and  curses,  as  it  was  for  a  moment 
withdrawn.  But  Hawkesworth  was  unmoved  by  either,  and 
at  length  the  fellow,  seeing  that  he  was  not  to  be  intimi- 
dated either  by  his  lordship's  name  or  his  own  menaces, 
thought  better  of  it — as  these  gentlemen  commonly  did 


30  SOPHIA 

when  they  were  resisted;  and  springing  back  with  a  parting 
oath,  he  took  to  his  heels,  and  saved  himself  down  a  by- 
path. 

The  Irishman,  a  little  breathed  by  his  victory,  wasted 
no  time  in  vaunting  it.  The  girl  had  witnessed  it  with 
worshipping  eyes;  he  could  trust  her  to  make  the  most  of 
it.  "  Quick,"  he  cried,  "  or  we  shall  be  in  trouble!  "  And 
sheathing  his  sword,  he  caught  the  trembling  Sophia  by  the 
hand,  and  ran  with  her  down  the  path.  They  turned  a 
corner;  a  little  way  before  her  she  saw  lights,  and  the  open 
space  near  the  booths  which  she  had  seen  her  brother  cross. 
But  now  Hawkesworth  halted;  his  purpose  was  still  fluid 
and  uncertain.  But  the  next  moment  a  shrill  childish 
voice  cried  "  Here  she  is;  I've  found  her!  "  and  Lady  Betty 
Cochrane  flew  towards  them.  A  little  behind  her,  ap- 
proaching at  a  more  leisurely  pace,  was  Sir  Hervey  Coke. 

Lady  Betty  stared  at  Hawkesworth  with  all  her  eyes,  and 
giggled.  "Oh,  lord,  a  man!"  she  cried,  and  veiled  her 
face,  pretending  to  be  overcome. 

"  I  saw  my  brother,"  Sophia  faltered,  covered  with  con- 
fusion, "  and  ran  down — ran  down  to — to  meet  him." 

"  Just  so!  But  see  here,  brother! "  Lady  Betty  answered 
with  a  wink.    "  Go's  the  word,  now,  if  you  are  not  a  fool." 

Hawkesworth  hesitated  an  instant,  looking  from  Sophia 
to  Sir  Hervey  Coke;  but  he  saw  that  nothing  more  could 
be  done  on  the  occasion,  and  muttering  "  Another  time," 
he  turned  away,  and  in  a  moment  was  lost  in  the  grove. 

"  She  was  with  her  brother,"  Lady  Betty  cried,  turning, 
and  breathlessly  explaining  the  matter  to  Coke,  who  had 
seen  all.  "  Think  of  that!  She  saw  him,  and  followed  him. 
That's  all.  Lord,  I  wonder,"  she  continued,  with  a  loud 
giggle,  "  if  they  would  make  such  a  fuss  if  I  were  missing. 
I  declare  to  goodness  I'll  try."  And,  leaving  Sophia  to  fol- 
low with  Sir  Hervey,  she  danced  on  in  front  until  they  met 
Mrs.  Northey,  who,  with  her  husband  and  several  of  her 


THE   CLOCK-MAKER  3t 

party,  was  following  in  search  of  the  culprit.  Seeing  she 
was  found,  the  gentlemen  winked  at  one  another  behind 
backs,  while  the  ladies  drew  down  the  corners  of  their 
mouths.  One  of  the  latter  laughed,  maliciously  expecting 
the  scene  that  would  follow. 

But  Lady  Betty  had  the  first  word,  and  kept  it.  "  Lord, 
ma'am,  what  ninnies  we  are! "  she  cried.  "  She  was  with 
her  brother.     That's  all!  " 

"  Hee,  hee! "  the  lady  tittered  who  had  laughed  before. 
"  That's  good !     Her  brother !  " 

"  Yes,  she  was!  "  Betty  cried,  turning  on  her,  a  very  spit- 
fire. "  I  suppose  seeing's  believing,  ma'am,  though  one  is 
only  fifteen,  and  not  forty.  She  saw  her  brother  going  by 
the — the  corner  there,  and  ran  after  him  while  we  were 

watching — watching  the But  oh,  I  beg  your  pardon, 

ma'am,  you  were  otherwise  engaged,  I  think! "  with  a  de- 
risive curtsey. 

Unfortunately  the  lady  who  had  laughed  had  a  weakness 
for  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  company;  which  was  so  notori- 
ous that  on  this  even  her  friends  sniggered.  With  Mrs. 
Northey,  however,  Lady  Betty's  advocacy  was  less  effective. 
That  pattern  sister,  from  the  moment  she  discovered 
Sophia's  absence,  and  divined  the  cause  of  it,  had  been  fit 
to  burst  with  spleen.  Fortunately,  the  coarse  rating  which 
she  had  prepared,  and  from  which  neither  policy  nor  mercy 
could  have  persuaded  her  to  refrain,  died  on  her  shrewish 
lips  at  the  word  "  brother." 

"  Her  brother?  "  she  repeated  mechanically,  as  she  glow- 
ered at  Lady  Betty.  "  Her  brother  here  ?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"  To  be  sure,  ma'am,  what  I  say.     She  saw  him." 

"  But  how  did  she  know — that  he  was  in  London  ?  "  Mrs. 
Northey  stammered,  forgetting  herself  for  the  moment. 

"  She  didn't  know!  That's  the  strange  part  of  it!  "  Lady 
Betty  replied  volubly.  "  She  saw  him,  ma'am,  and  ran  af- 
ter him." 


32  SOPHIA 

"  Well,  anyway,  you  have  given  us  enough  trouble!  "  Mrs. 
Northey  retorted,  addressing  her  sister;  who  stood  before 
them  trembling  with  excitement,  and  overcome  by  the  varied 
emotions  of  the  scene  through  which  she  had  passed  in  the 
alley.  "  Thank  you  for  nothing,  and  Master  Tom,  too! 
Perhaps  if  you  have  quite  done  you'll  come  home.  Sir  Her- 
vey,  I'll  trust  her  to  you,  if  you'll  be  troubled  with  her. 
Now,  if  your  ladyship  will  lead  the  way?  I  declare  it's  won- 
drous dark  of  a  sudden." 

The  party,  taking  the  hint,  turned,  and  quickly  made  its 
way  along  the  deserted  paths  towards  the  entrance.  As  they 
trooped  by  twos  and  threes  down  the  Avenue  of  Delight 
many  of  the  lamps  had  flickered  out,  and  others  were  gutter- 
ing in  the  sockets,  fit  images  of  wit  and  merriment  that  had 
lost  their  sparkle,  and  fell  dull  on  jaded  ears.  Coke  walked 
in  silence  beside  his  companion  until  a  little  interval  sep- 
arated them  from  the  others.  Then,  "  Child,"  he  said  in  a 
tone  grave  and  almost  severe,  "  are  you  fixed  to  take  no 
warning?     Are  you  determined  to  throw  away  your  life?  " 

It  was  his  misfortune — and  hers — that  he  chose  his  sea- 
sons ill.  At  that  moment  her  heart  was  filled  to  overflowing 
with  her  lover,  and  her  danger;  his  prowess,  and  his  brave 
defence  of  her.  Her  eyes  were  hot  with  joyful,  happy  tears 
hardly  pent  back.  Her  limbs  trembled  with  a  delicious  agi- 
tation; all  within  her  was  a  tumult  of  warm  feelings,  of 
throbbing  sensibilities. 

For  Sir  Hervey  to  oppose  himself  to  her  in  that  mood  was 
to  court  defeat;  it  was  to  associate  himself  with  the  worldli- 
ness  that  to  her  in  her  rapture  was  the  most  hateful  thing 
on  earth;  and  he  had  his  reward.  "  Throw  away  my  life," 
she  cried,  curtly  and  contemptuously,  "  'tis  just  that,  sir,  I 
am  determined  not  to  do!  " 

"  You  are  going  the  way  to  do  it,"  he  retorted. 

"  I  should  be  going  the  way — were  I  to  entertain  the  suit 
of  a  spy! "  she  cried,  her  voice  trembling  as  she  hurled  the 


THE   CLOCK-MAKER  33 

insult  at  him.  "  Were  I  to  become  the  wife  of  a  man  who, 
even  before  he  has  a  claim  on  me,  dogs  my  footsteps,  watches 
my  actions,  defames  my  friends!  Believe  me,  sir,  I  thank 
you  for  nothing  so  much  as  for  opening  my  eyes  to  your 
merits." 

"  Oh,  Lord!  "  he  exclaimed  in  despair  almost  comic. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I  see  your  conduct  is  of  a 
piece,  sir.  From  the  first  you  treated  me  as  a  child;  a  chat- 
tel to  be  conveyed  to  you  by  my  friends,  with  the  least 
trouble  to  yourself.  You  scarcely  stooped  to  speak  to  me 
until  you  found  another  in  the  field,  and  then  'twas  only 
to  backbite  a  gentleman  whom  you  dared  not  accuse  to  his 
face! " 

As  she  grew  hotter  he  grew  cool.  "  Well,  well,"  he  said, 
tapping  his  snuff-box,  "  be  easy;  I  sha'n't  carry  you  off 
against  your  will." 

"  No,  you  will  not!  "  she  cried.  "  You  will  not!  Don't 
think,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  afraid  of  you.  I  am  afraid  of 
no  one! " 

And  in  the  fervour  of  her  love  she  felt  that  she  spoke  the 
truth.     At  that  moment  she  was  afraid  of  no  one. 

"  "lis  a  happy  state;  I  hope  it  may  continue,"  Coke  an- 
swered placidly.  "  You  never  had  cause  to  fear  me.  After 
this  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  reproach  me.  I  ask  only 
one  thing  in  return." 

"  You  will  have  nothing,"  she  said  rudely. 

"  You  will  grant  me  this,  whether  you  will  or  no!  " 

"Never!" 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  for  it  is  but  this,  and  you  cannot  help 
yourself.  When  you  have  been  married  to  that  man  a  month 
think  of  this  moment  and  of  me,  and  remember  that  I 
warned  you." 

He  spoke  soberly,  but  he  might  have  spoken  to  the  winds 
for  all  the  good  he  did.  She  was  in  air,  picturing  her  lover's 
strength  and  prowess,  his  devotion,  his  gallantry.  Once 
3 


34  SOPHIA 

again  she  saw  the  drunken  lord  lifted  and  flung  among  the 
shrubs,  and  Hawkesworth's  figure  as  he  stood  like  Hector 
above  his  fallen  foe.  Again  she  saw  the  other  bully  flinch- 
ing before  his  steel,  cursing,  reviling  and  hiccoughing  by 
turns,  and  Hawkesworth  silent,  inexorable,  pressing  on  him. 
She  forgot  the  preceding  moment  of  dismay  when  she  had 
turned  to  her  lover  for  help,  and  read  something  less  than 
respect  in  his  eyes;  that  short  moment  during  which  he  had 
hung  in  the  wind  uncertain  what  course  he  would  take  with 
her.  She  forgot  this,  for  she  was  only  eighteen,  and  the 
scene  in  which  he  had  championed  her  had  cast  its  glamour 
over  her,  distorting  all  that  had  gone  before.  He  had  de- 
fended her;  he  was  her  hero,  she  was  his  chosen.  What  girl 
of  sensibility  could  doubt  it? 

Coke,  who  left  them  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  Arling- 
ton Street,  finished  the  evening  at  White's,  where,  playing 
deep  for  him,  he  won  three  hundred  at  hazard  without 
speaking  three  unnecessary  words.  Eeturning  home  with 
the  milk  in  the  morning,  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  surprised  to 
find  himself  following  Hawkesworth  along  Piccadilly.  The 
Irishman  had  a  companion,  a  young  lad  who  reeled  and  hic- 
coughed in  the  cool  morning  air;  who  sung  snatches  of  tipsy 
songs,  and  at  the  corner  of  Berkeley  Street  would  have 
fought  with  a  night  chairman  if  the  elder  man  had  not 
dragged  him  on  by  force.  The  two  turned  up  Dover  Street 
and  Sir  Hervey,  after  following  them  with  his  eyes,  lost 
sight  of  them,  and  went  on,  wondering  why  a  drunken  boy's 
voice,  heard  at  haphazard  in  the  street,  reminded  him  of 
Sophia. 

He  would  have  wondered  less  and  known  more  had  he 
followed  them  farther.  At  the  bottom  of  Hay  Hill  the  lad 
freed  himself  from  his  companion's  arm,  propped  his  shoul- 
ders against  the  wall  of  Berkeley  Gardens,  and  with  drunken 
solemnity  proceeded  to  argue  a  point.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand," he  said.     "  Why  shouldn't  I  speak  to  S'phia,  if  I 


THE   CLOCK-MAKER  35 

please.     Eh?     S'phia's  devilish  good  girl,  why  do  you  go 
and  drag  her  off?     That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  My  dear  lad,"  Hawkesworth  answered  with  patience, 
"  if  she  saw  you  she'd  blow  the  whole  thing." 

"Not  she!"  the  lad  hiccoughed  obstinately.  "She's  a 
good  little  girl.     She's  my  twin,  I  tell  you." 

"  But  the  others  were  with  her." 

"  What  others?  " 

'"-Northey." 

"  I  shall  kick  Northey,  when  I  am  married,"  the  lad  pro- 
claimed with  drunken  solemnity.     "  That's  all." 

"  Well,  you'll  be  married  to-morrow." 

"Why  not  to-day?  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  Eh? 
Why  not  to-day?  " 

"  Because  the  fair  Oriana  is  at  Ipswich,  and  you  are  here," 
the  Irishman  answered  with  a  trace  of  impatience  in  his 
tone.  Then  under  his  breath  he  added,  "D — n  the  jade! 
This  is  one  of  her  tricks.     She's  never  where  she  is  wanted." 

In  the  meantime  the  lad  had  been  set  in  motion  again, 
and  the  two  had  reached  the  end  of  Davies  Street  at  the 
north-west  corner  of  the  square.  Here,  perceiving  the  other 
mutter,  Tom — for  Sophia's  brother,  Tom,  it  was — stopped 
anew.  "  Eh?  What's  that?  "  he  said.  "  What's  that  you 
are  saying,  old  tulip?  " 

"  I  was  saying  you  were  a  monstrous  clever  fellow  to  win 
her — to-day  or  to-morrow,"  Hawkesworth  answered  coolly. 
"  And  I  am  hanged  if  I  know  how  you  did  it.  I  can  tell  you 
a  hundred  gay  fellows  in  the  town  are  dying  to  marry  her. 
And  no  flinchers,  either." 

"  Ton  honour?  " 

"  Ay,  and  a  hundred  more  would  give  their  ears  for  a 
kiss.  But  lord,  out  of  all  she  must  needs  choose  you!  I 
vow,  lad,"  Hawkesworth  continued  with  enthusiasm,  "  it  is 
the  most  extraordinary  thing  that  ever  was.  The  finest 
shape  this  side  of  Paris,  eyes  that  would  melt  a  stone,  ankles 


36  SOPHIA 

like  a  gossamer,  a  toast  wherever  she  goes,  and  the  prettiest 
wit  in  the  world;  sink  me,  lad,  she  might  have  had  the  rich- 
est buck  in  town,  and  she  chooses  you." 

"  Might  she  really?     Honest  now,  might  she?  " 
"  That  she  might!  " 

Tom  was  so  moved  by  this  picture  of  his  mistress's  devo- 
tion and  his  own  bliss  that  he  found  it  necessary  to  weep  a 
little,  supporting  himself  by  the  huge  link-extinguisher  at 
the  corner  of  Davies  Street.  His  wig  awry,  and  his  hat 
clapped  on  the  back  of  it,  he  looked  as  abandoned  a  young 
rake  as  the  five  o'clock  sun  ever  shone  upon;  and  yet  .under 
his  maudlin  tears  lay  a  real  if  passing  passion.  "  She's  an 
angel! "  he  sobbed  presently.  "I  shall  never  forget  it! 
Never!  And  to  think  that  but  for  you,  if  your  chaise  had 
not  broken  down  at  my  elbow,  just  when  you  had  picked  her 
up  after  the  accident  at  Trumpington,  I  should  never  have 
known  her!  And — and  I  might  have  been  smugging  at 
Cambridge  now,  instead  of  waiting  to  be  made  the  happiest 
of  men.     Oriana,"  he  continued,  clinging  to  the  railings  in 

a  tipsy  rhapsody,  "  most  beautiful  of  your  sex,  I  vow " 

A  couple  of  chairmen  and  a  milk-girl  were  looking  on 
grinning.  "  There,  bed's  the  word  now!  "  Hawkesworth 
cried,  seizing  him  and  dragging  him  on.  "  Bed's  the  word! 
I  said  we  would  make  a  night  of  it,  and  we  have.  What's 
more,  my  lad,"  he  continued  in  a  tone  too  low  for  Tom's 
ear,  "  if  you're  not  so  cut  to-morrow,  you're  glad  to  keep 
the  house — I'm  a  Dutchman!  " 

This  time  his  efforts  were  successful.  His  lodging,  taken 
a  week  before  in  the  name  of  Plomer,  was  only  a  few  doors 
distant.  In  two  minutes  he  had  got  Tom  thither;  in  three, 
the  lad,  divested  of  his  coat,  boots  and  neckcloth,  was  snor- 
ing heavily  on  the  bed;  while  the  Irishman,  from  an  arm- 
chair on  the  hearth,  kept  dark  watch  over  him.  At  length 
he  too  fell  asleep,  and  slumbered  as  soundly  as  an  innocent 
child,  until  a  muffled  hammering  in  the  parlour  roused  him, 


THE   CLOCK-MAKER  37 

and  he  stood  up  yawning  and  looked  about  him.  The  room, 
stiflingly  close,  lay  in  semi-darkness;  on  the  bed  sprawled  the 
young  runagate,  dead  asleep,  his  arms  tossed  wide.  Hawkes- 
worth  stared  awhile,  still  half  asleep;  at  last,  thirsting  for 
small  beer,  he  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the  parlour. 
Here  the  windows  were  open:  it  was  high  noon.  The  noise 
the  Irishman  had  heard  was  made  by  a  man  whose  head  and(, 
shoulders  were  plunged  in  a  tall  clock  that  stood  in  one' 
corner.  The  man  was  kneeling  at  his  task  mending  some- 
thing in  the  works  of  the  clock.  The  Irishman  touched  him 
roughly  with  his  foot. 

"  Sink  that  coffin-making!  "  he  cried  coarsely.  "  Do  you 
hear?     Get  up!  " 

The  clock-maker  withdrew  his  head,  looked  up  meekly  to 
see  who  disturbed  him,  and — and  swore.  Simultaneously 
Hawkesworth  drew  back  with  a  cry,  and  the  two  glared  at 
one  another.  Then  the  man  on  the  floor — he  wore  a  paper 
cap,  and  below  it  his  fat  elderly  face  shone  with  sweat — rose 
quickly  to  his  feet.  "You  villain!"  he  cried,  in  a  voice 
tremulous  and  scarcely  articulate,  so  great  was  his  passion. 
"I  have  found  you  at  last,  have  I?  Where's  my  daugh- 
ter? "  and  he  stretched  out  his  open  hands,  crook-fingered, 
and  shook  them  in  the  younger  man's  face.  "  Where  is  my 
daughter?  " 

"  Lord,  man,  how  do  I  know?  "  Hawkesworth  answered. 
He  tried  to  speak  lightly,  but  with  all  his  impudence  he  was 
taken  aback,  and  showed  it. 

"How  do  you  know?"  the  clock-maker  retorted,  again 
shaking  his  hands  in  his  face.  "  If  you  don't  know,  who 
should?  Who  should?  By  heaven,  if  you  don't  tell  me, 
and  truly,  I'll  rouse  the  house  on  you.  Do  you  hear!  I'll 
make  you  known  here,  you  scoundrel,  for  what  you  are. 
This  is  a  respectable  house,  and  they'll  have  none  of  you. 
I'll  so  cry  you,  you  shall  trick  no  man  of  his  daughter  again. 
No,  for  I'll  set  the  crowd  on  you,  and  mark  you." 


38  SOPHIA 

"  Plush,  man,  hush!  "  Hawkesworth  answered,  with  an 
anxious  glance  at  the  door  of  the  chamber  he  had  left. 
"  You  do  yourself  no  good  by  this." 

"  No;  but  by  heaven  I  can  do  you  harm!  "  the  other  re- 
plied, and  nimbly  stepping  to  the  door  that  led  to  the  stairs, 
he  opened  it,  and  held  it  ajar.  "I  can  do  you  harm!  A 
'  silver  tankard  and  twenty-seven  guineas  she  took  with  her, 
and  I'll  swear  them  to  you.     By  God,  I  will!  " 

Hawkesworth's  face  turned  a  dull  white.  Unwelcome  as 
the  meeting  and  the  recognition  were,  he  had  not  realised 
his  danger  until  now.  The  awkward  circumstances  con- 
nected with  the  tankard  and  the  guineas  had  escaped  his 
memory.  Now  it  was  clear  he  must  temporise.  "  You 
need  not  threaten,"  he  said  doggedly.  "  I'll  tell  you  all  I 
know.  She's — she's  not  with  me;  she  is  on  the  stage.  She's 
not  in  London." 

"  She's  not  with  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  You're  a  liar!  "  the  clock-maker  cried,  brutally. 

"  I  swear  it  is  true!  "  Hawkesworth  protested. 

"  She  is  not  living  with  you?  " 

"  No." 

"  Did  you  marry  her?  " 

"  Ye — ye — No!  "  Hawkesworth  answered,  uncertain  for 
a  moment  which  reply  would  be  the  better  taken.  "  No;  I 
— she  left  me,  I  tell  you,"  he  continued  hurriedly,  "  and 
went  on  the  stage  against  my  will." 

The  clock-maker  laughed  cunningly,  and  his  face  was  not 
pleasant  to  see.  "  She's  not  with  you,"  he  said,  "  she's  not 
married  to  you,  and  she's  not  in  London?  You  deceived 
her,  my  fine  fellow,  and  left  her.  That's  the  story,  is  it? 
That's  the  story  I've  waited  two  years  to  hear." 

"  She  left  me,"  Hawkesworth  answered.  "  Against  my 
will,  I  tell  you." 

"  Anyway  she's  gone,  and  'twill  make  no  difference  to  her 


THE   CLOCK-MAKER  39 

what  happens  to  you.  So  I'll  hang  yon,  yon  devil,"  the  old 
man  continued,  with  a  cold  chuckling  determination,  that 
chilled  Hawkesworth's  blood.  "  No,  you  don't,"  he  con- 
tinued, withdrawing  one  half  of  his  body  through  the  door- 
way, as  Hawkesworth  took  a  step  towards  him.  "  You  don't 
pinch  me  that  way!     Another  step,  and  I  give  the  alarm." 

Hawkesworth  recalled  the  opinion  he  had  held  of  this 
grasping  old  curmudgeon,  his  former  landlord — who  had 
loved  his  gay,  flirty  daughter  a  little,  and  his  paltry  savings 
more;  and  his  heart  misgave  him.  The  alarm  once  given, 
the  neighbourhood  roused,  at  the  best,  and  if  no  worse  thing 
befel  him,  he  would  be  arrested.  Arrest  meant  the  ruin  of 
his  present  schemes.  "  Oh,  come,  Mr.  Grocott,"  he  faltered. 
"  You  will  not  do  it.     You'll  not  be  so  foolish." 

"  Why  not?  "  the  other  snarled,  in  cruel  enjoyment  of  his 
fears.     "  Eh!     Tell  me  that.     Why  not?  " 

But  even  as  he  spoke  Hawkesworth  saw  the  way  out  of 
his  dilemma.  "  Because  you'll  not  do  a  thing  you  will  re- 
pent all  your  life,"  he  said,  his  brazen  assurance  returning 
as  quickly  as  it  had  departed.  "  Because  you'll  not  ruin 
your  daughter.  Have  done,  hold  your  hand,  man,  and  in 
two  days  I'll  make  her  a  grand  lady." 

"  You'll  marry  her,  I  suppose,"  old  Grocott  answered  with 
a  savage  sneer. 

"  Yes,  to  a  man  of  title  and  property." 

"  You're  a  great  liar." 

Hawkesworth  spread  out  his  hands  in  remonstrance. 
"  Judge  for  yourself,"  he  said.  "  Have  a  little  patience. 
Listen  to  me  two  minutes,  my  good  fellow;  and  then  say  if 
you'll  stand  in  your  daughter's  light." 

"Hang  the  drab!  She's  no  daughter  of  mine,"  the  old 
man  cried  fiercely.  Nevertheless  he  listened,  and  Hawkes- 
worth, sinking  his  voice,  proceeded  to  tell  in  tones,  always 
earnest,  and  at  times  appealing,  a  story  that  little  by  little 
won  the  hearer's  attention.     First  Grocott,  albeit  he  listened 


40  SOPHIA 

with  the  same  apparent  incredulity,  closed  the  door.  Later, 
his  interest  growing,  he  advanced  into  the  room.  Then  he 
began  to  breathe  more  quickly;  at  length,  with  an  oath,  he 
struck  his  hand  on  the  table  beside  him. 

"  And  you  say  the  lad  is  here?  "  he  cried. 

"  He  is  here." 

"Where?" 

"  In  that  room." 

"  By  gole,  let  me  see  him!  " 

"  If  he  is  asleep,"  Hawkesworth  answered,  assenting  with 
reluctance.  He  crossed  the  room  and  cautiously  opened  the 
door  of  the  chamber  in  which  Tom  lay  snoring.  Beckon- 
ing the  old  man  to  be  wary,  he  allowed  him  to  peer  in. 
Grocott  looked  and  listened,  stole  forward,  and,  like  some 
pale-faced  ghoul,  leant  over  the  flushed  features  of  the  un- 
conscious lad.  Then  he  stealthily  returned  to  the  parlour, 
and  the  door  between  the  two  rooms  was  shut. 

"  Well,"  the  Irishman  asked,  "  are  you  satisfied?  " 

"  What  do  you  say  his  name  is?  " 

"  Maitland— Sir  Thomas  Maitland  of  Cuckfield." 

"  She'll  be  Lady  Maitland?" 

"  To  be  sure." 

"And  what  do  you  call — her  now?"  the  clock-maker 
asked.  He  seemed  to  find  a  difficulty  in  pronouncing  the 
last  words. 

"  Clark — Mistress  Oriana  Clark,"  Hawkesworth  answered. 
"  She's  at  Ipswich,  or  was,  and  should  be  here  to-morrow." 

Grocott's  nose  curled  at  the  name.  "  And  what  are  you 
going  to  get  out  of  this?"  he  continued,  eyeing  the  other 
with  intense  suspicion. 

The  Irishman  hesitated,  but  in  the  end  determined  to  tell 
the  truth,  and  trust  to  the  other's  self-interest.  "  A  wife, 
and  a  plum,"  he  said  jauntily.  "  There's  a  girl,  his  sister, 
I'm  going  to  marry;  she  takes  ten  thousand  out  of  his  share 
if  he  marries  without  his  guardians'  consent.     That's  it." 


GROCOTT       .       .  STOLE    FORWARD,   AND       .       .       .       LEANT    OVER   THE 

FLUSHED    FEATURES    OF   THE   UNCONSCIOUS    LAD 


THE   CLOCK-MAKER  41 

"Lord,  you're  a  rascal!"  Grocott  ejaculated,  and  stared 
in  admiration  of  the  other's  roguery.  "  To  take  ten  thou- 
sand of  my  son-in-law's  money,  and  tell  me  of  it  to  my  face. 
By  gole,  you're  a  cool  one!  " 

"  You  can  choose  between  that  and  nothing,"  Hawkes- 
worth  answered,  confident  in  his  recovered  mastery.  "  You 
can  do  nothing  without  me,  you  see.     No  more  can  Oriana." 

The  old  man  winced.  Somehow  the  name — her  name 
had  been  Sarah — hurt  him.  "  What's  the  name  of — of  the 
other  one?"  he  said.  "His  sister — that  you're  going  to 
marry?  " 

"  Sophia,"  the  Irishman  answered. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    DISCOVERY 

The  scene  in  the  gardens  had  moved  Sophia's  feelings  so 
deeply  that,  notwithstanding  the  glamour  Hawkesworth's 
exploit  had  east  over  her,  a  word  of  kindness  addressed  to 
her  on  her  arrival  in  Arlington  Street  might  have  had  far- 
reaching  results.  Unfortunately  her  sister's  temper  and  Mr. 
Northey's  dulness  gave  sweet  reasonableness  small  place. 
Scarcely  had  the  chairmen  been  dismissed,  the  chairs  car- 
ried out,  and  the  door  closed  on  them  before  Mr.  Northey's 
indignation  found  vent.  "  Sophia,  I  am  astonished! "  he 
said  in  portentous  tones;  and,  dull  as  he  was,  he  was  aston- 
ished. "  I  could  not  have  believed  you  would  behave  in 
this  way!  " 

"The  more  fool  you! "  Mrs.  Northey  snapped;  while  the 
girl,  white  and  red  by  turns,  too  proud  to  fly,  yet  dreading 
what  was  to  come,  hung  irresolute  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
apparently  fumbling  with  her  hood,  and  really  growing 
harder  and  harder  with  each  reproach  that  was  levelled  at 
her. 

"  After  all  I  said  to  you  this  morning!  "  Mr.  Northey  con- 
tinued, glaring  at  her  as  if  he  found  disobedience  to  orders 
such  as  his  a  thing  beyond  belief.  "  "When  I  had  prohibited 
in  the  most  particular  manner  all  communications  with  that 
person,  to  go  and — and  meet  him  in  a  place  of  all  places  the 
most  scandalous  in  which  to  be  alone  with  a  man." 

"  La,  Nbrthey,  it  was  that  made  her  do  it! "  his  wife  re- 
joined sourly.     "  Go  to  bed,  miss,  and  we  will  talk  to  you 

42 


A  DISCOVERT  43 

to-morrow.  I  suppose  you  thought  we  were  taken  in  with 
your  fine  tale  of  your  brother?  " 

"  I  never  said  it  was  my  brother!  "  Sophia  cried,  hotly. 

"  Go  to  bed.  Do  you  hear?  I  suppose  you  have  sense 
enough  to  do  that  when  you  are  told/'  her  sister  rejoined. 
"  We  will  talk  to  you  to-morrow." 

Sophia  choked,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and  turning  away, 
crept  upstairs.  After  all,  she  whispered,  as  her  hands 
squeezed  convulsively  the  poor  hood  that  had  not  offended 
her,  it  mattered  little.  If  he  were  good  to  her  what  recked 
it  of  others,  their  words,  or  their  opinion?  What  had  they 
ever  done  for  her  that  she  should  be  guided  by  them,  or 
what,  that  she  should  resign  the  happiness  of  her  life  at  their 
bidding?  They  had  no  real  care  for  her.  Here  was  no 
question  of  father  or  mother,  or  the  respect  due  to  their 
wishes;  of  kindness,  love,  or  gratitude.  Of  her  brother-in- 
law,  who  bullied  her  in  his  dull,  frigid  fashion,  she  knew 
little  more  than  she  knew  of  a  man  in  the  street;  and  her 
sister  spared  her  at  the  best  a  cold  selfish  affection,  the  affec- 
tion of  the  workman  for  the  tools  by  which  he  hopes  he 
may  some  day  profit. 

Naturally,  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  lover  who  that 
evening  had  shown  himself  in  his  true  colours,  a  hero  worthy 
of  any  poor  girl's  affection.  Sophia's  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  soft  emotion  as  she  thought 
of  him  and  pictured  him;  as  she  flushed  anew  beneath  his 
ardent  glances,  as  she  recalled  the  past  and  painted  a  future 
in  which  she  would  lie  safe  in  the  haven  of  his  love,  secured 
from  peril  by  the  strength  of  his  arm.  What  puny  figures 
the  beaux  and  bloods  of  town  looked  beside  him!  With 
what  grace  he  moved  among  them,  elbowing  one  and  sup- 
planting another.  It  was  no  wonder  they  gazed  after  him 
enviously,  or  behind  his  back  vented  their  petty  spite  in 
sneers  and  innuendos,  called  him  Teague,  and  muttered  of 
Murphies  and  the  bog  of  Arran.     The  time  would  come — 


44  SOPHIA 

and  oh,  how  she  prayed  it  might  come  quickly — when  the 
world  would  discover  the  part  he  had  played;  when,  in  a 
Stuart  England,  he  would  stand  forward  the  friend  of  Cecil, 
the  agent  of  Ormonde,  and  the  town  would  recognise  in  the 
obscurity  in  which  he  now  draped  himself  and  at  which  they 
scoffed,  the  cloak  of  the  most  daring  and  loyal  conspirator 
that  ever  wrought  for  the  rightful  king! 

For  tins  was  the  secret  he  had  whispered  in  Sophia's  ear; 
this  was  the  explanation  he  had  given  of  the  cold  looks  men 
cast  on  him  in  public.  Nor  was  it  too  incredible  for  the 
belief  of  a  romantic  girl.  In  that  year,  1742,  the  air  in 
London  was  full  of  such  rumours,  and  London,  rumour  said, 
was  full  of  such  men.  The  close  of  Sir  Kobert  Walpole's 
long  and  peaceful  administration,  and  the  imminence  of  war 
with  France,  had  raised  the  hopes  of  the  Jacobites  to  the 
highest  pitch.  Though  the  storm  did  not  break  in  open 
war  until  three  years  later,  it  already  darkened  the  sky,  and 
filled  the  capital  with  its  rumblings.  Alike  in  the  Cabinet, 
where  changes  were  frequent  and  great  men  few,  and  in  the 
country  where  people  looked  for  something,  they  hardly 
knew  what,  unrest  and  uneasiness  prevailed.  Many  a  sturdy 
squire  in  Lancashire  and  Shropshire,  many  a  member  at 
Westminster,  from  Shippon  and  Sir  Watkyn  downwards, 
passed  his  glass  over  the  water-jug  as  he  drank  the  King; 
and  if  Sophia,  as  she  drew  her  withered  flower  from  its  hid- 
ing-place, that  it  might  lie  beneath  her  pillow  through  the 
night,  prayed  for  King  James  and  his  cause,  she  did  only 
what  many  a  pretty  Jacobite,  and  some  who  passed  for 
Whigs,  were  doing  at  the  same  hour. 

In  the  meantime,  and  pending  the  triumph  for  which  she 
longed  so  passionately,  her  dear  hero's  pretensions  helped 
her  not  a  whit;  on  the  contrary,  were  they  known,  or  sus- 
pected, they  would  sink  him  lower  than  ever  in  the  estima- 
tion of  her  family.  This  thought  it  was  that,  as  she  lay 
revolving  matters,  raised  in  her  mind  an  increasing  barrier 


A    DISCOVERY  45 

between  her  and  her  sister.  The  Northeys  were  firm  Whigs, 
pledged  not  less  by  interest  than  by  tradition  to  the  White 
Horse  of  Hanover.  They  had  deserted  Sir  Kobert  at  his 
utmost  need,  but  merely  to  serve  their  own  turn;  because 
his  faction  was  drooping,  and  another,  equally  Whiggish,  was 
in  the  ascendant,  certainly  with  no  view  to  a  Stuart  Restora- 
tion. Her  Hawkesworth's  success,  therefore,  meant  their 
defeat  and  downfall;  his  triumph  must  cost  them  dear.  To 
abide  by  them,  and  abide  by  him,  were  as  inconsistent  as  to 
serve  God  and  Mammon. 

Sophia,  drawn  to  her  lover  by  the  strength  of  maiden 
fancy,  saw  this;  she  felt  the  interval  between  her  and  her 
family  increase  the  longer  she  dwelt  on  the  course  to  which 
her  mind  was  being  slowly  moved.  The  consciousness  that 
no  compromise  .was  possible  had  its  effect  upon  her.  When 
she  was  summoned  to  the  parlour  next  day,  a  change  had 
come  over  her;  she  went  not  shyly  and  shamefacedly,  open 
to  cajolery  and  kindness,  as  she  had  gone  the  previous  day, 
when  her  opinion  of  her  lover's  merit  had  fallen  short  of 
the  wrapt  assurance  that  this  morning  uplifted  her.  On  the 
contrary,  she  went  armed  with  determination  as  solemn  in 
her  own  sight  as  it  was  provoking  in  the  eyes  of  older  and 
more  sagacious  persons. 

Mrs.  Northey  discerned  the  change  the  moment  Sophia 
entered  the  room;  and  she  was  proportionately  exasperated. 
"  Oh,  miss,  so  you'll  follow  Miss  Howe,  will  you?  "  she 
sneered,  alluding  to  a  tale  of  scandal  that  still  furnished  the 
text  for  many  a  sermon  to  the  young  and  flighty.  "  You'll 
take  no  advice! " 

"  I  hope  I  shall  know  how  to  conduct  myself  better, 
ma'am,"  Sophia  said  proudly. 

Mr.  Northey  was  less  clear-sighted  than  his  wife.  He 
saw  no  change;  he  thought  in  all  innocence  that  the  matter 
was  where  he  had  left  it.  After  clearing  his  throat,  there- 
fore, "  Sophia,"  he  said  with  much  majesty,  "  I  hope  you 


46  SOPHIA 

have  recovered  your  senses,  and  that  conduct  such  as  that 
of  which  you  were  guilty  last  night  will  not  be  repeated 
while  you  are  in  our  charge.  Understand  me;  it  must  not 
be  repeated.  You  are  country  bred,  and  do  not  understand 
that  what  you  did  is  a  very  serious  matter,  and  quite  enough 
to  compromise  a  young  girl." 

Sophia.,  disdaining  to  answer,  spent  her  gaze  on  the  pict- 
ure above  his  head.  The  withered  flower  was  in  her  bosom; 
the  heart  that  beat  against  it  was  full  of  wondering  pity 
for  her  sister,  who  had  been  compelled  to  marry  this  man — 
this  man,  ugly,  cold,  stiff,  with  no  romance  in  his  life,  no 
secret — this  man,  at  the  touch  of  whose  hand  she,  Sophia, 
shuddered. 

"I  consider  it  so — so  serious  a  transgression,"  Mr. 
Northey  resumed  pompously — little  did  he  dream  what 
she  was  thinking  of  him— "that  the  only  condition  on 
which  I  can  consent  to  overlook  it  is  that  you  at  once, 
Sophia,  do  your  duty  by  accepting  the  husband  on  whom 
we  have  fixed  for  you." 

"  No,"  Sophia  said,  in  a  low  but  determined  tone,  "  I 
cannot  do  that!  " 

Mr.  Northey  fancied  that  he  had  not  heard  aright. 
"  Eh,"  he  said,  "  you " 

"  I  cannot  do  that,  sir;  my  mind  is  quite  made  up,"  she 
repeated. 

From  her  chair  Mrs.  Northey  laughed  scornfully  at  her 
husband's  consternation.  "Are  you  blind?"  she  said. 
"  Cannot  you  see  that  the  Irishman  has  turned  the  girl's 
head?" 

"  Impossible!  "  Mr.  Northey  said. 

"Don't  you  hear  her  say  that  her  mind  is  made  up?'' 
Mrs.  Northey  continued  contemptuously.  "  You  may  talk 
till  you  are  hoarse,  Northey,  you'll  get  nothing;  I  know 
that.    She's  a  pig  when  she  likes." 

Mr.  Northey  glowered  at  the  girl  as  if  she  had  already 


A   DISCOVERY  47 

broken  all  bounds.  "  But  does  she  understand,"  he  said, 
breathing  hard,  "  that  marriage  with  a  person  of — of  that 
class,  is  impossible?  And  surely  no  modest  girl  would  con- 
tinue to  encourage  a  person  whom  she  cannot  marry?  '; 

Still  Sophia  remained  silent,  her  eyes  steadily  fixed  on 
the  picture  above  his  head. 

"  Speak,  Sophia!  "  he  cried  imperatively.  "  This  is  im- 
pertinence." 

"  If  I  cannot  marry  him/'  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
shall  marry  no  one!  " 

"If  you  cannot  marry  that — that  Irish  footman?"  he 
gasped,  bursting  into  rage.  "  A  penniless  adventurer,  who 
has  not  even  asked  you." 

"  He  has  asked  me,"  she  retorted. 

"  Oh,  by  Gad,  ma'am,  I've  done  with  you,"  Mr.  Northey 
cried,  striking  his  fist  on  the  table;  and  he  added  an  ex- 
pletive or  two.  "  I  hand  you  over  to  madam,  there.  Per- 
haps she  can  bring  you  to  your  senses.  I  might  have  known 
it,"  he  continued  bitterly,  addressing  his  wife.  "  Like  and 
like,  madam!     It's  bred  in  the  bone,  I  see! ': 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Northey,"  his  wife  an- 
swered with  a  sneer  of  easy  contempt.  "  If  you  had  left  the 
matter  to  me  from  the  beginning, 'twould  have  been  done  by 
now.  Listen  to  me,  Miss  Obstinate.  Is  that  the  last  word 
you'll  give  us?  " 

"Yes,"  Sophia  said,  pluming  herself  a  little  on  her 
victory. 

"  Then  you'll  go  into  the  country  to-morrow!  That's 
all! "  was  Mrs.  Northey's  reply.  "We'll  see  how  you  like 
that!" 

The  blow  was  unexpected.  The  girl's  lips  parted,  and  she 
looked  wildly  at  her  sister.  "  Into  the  country? "  she 
stammered. 

"  Ay,  sure." 

"To — to  Cuckfield?"  she  asked  desperately.    After  all, 


48  SOPHIA 

were  she  sent  to  her  old  home  all  was  not  lost.  He  had 
heard  her  speak  of  it;  he  knew  where  it  was;  he  could  easily 
trace  her  thither. 

"  No,  miss,  not  to  Cuckfield,"  her  sister  replied,  triumph- 
ing cruelly,  for  she  read  the  girl's  thoughts.  "  You'll  go 
to  Aunt  Leah  at  Chalkhill,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  her  tan- 
trums and  her  scraping.  You'll  go  early  to-morrow;  Mr. 
Northey  will  take  you;  and  until  you  are  away  from  here 
I'll  answer  there  shall  be  no  note-palming.  When  you  are 
in  a  better  mind,  and  your  Teague's  in  Bridewell,  you  may 
come  back.  I  fancy  you'll  be  tamed  by  that  time.  It  will 
need  mighty  little  persuasion,  I'm  thinking,  to  bring  you 
to  marry  Sir  Hervey  when  you've  been  at  Aunt  Leah's  for 
three  months." 

Sophia's  lip  began  to  tremble;  her  eyes  roved  piteously. 
Well  might  the  prospect  terrify  her,  for  it  meant  not  only 
exile  from  her  lover,  but  an  exile  which  she  saw  might  be 
permanent.  For  how  was  he  to  find  her?  To  Cuckfield, 
the  family  seat,  he  might  trace  her  easily;  but  in  the  poor 
hamlet  on  the  Sussex  coast,  where  her  aunt,  who  had 
tripped  in  her  time  and  paid  the  penalty,  dragged  on  a  penu- 
rious existence  as  the  widow  of  a  hedge-parson,  not  so  easily. 
There  a  poor  girl  might  eat  out  her  heart,  even  as  her  aunt 
had  eaten  out  hers,  and  no  redress  and  no  chance  of  rescue. 
Even  had  she  the  opportunity  of  writing  to  her  lover  she 
did  not — unhappy  thought — know  where  he  lived. 

Mrs.  Northey  read  her  dismay,  saw  the  colour  fade  in 
her  cheek,  and  the  tears  gather  in  her  eyes,  and  with  re- 
morseless determination,  with  cruel  enjoyment,  drove  the 
nail  home. 

"  There'll  be  no  Vauxhall  there,"  she  sneered,  "  and 
mighty  few  drums  or  routs,  my  dear!  It's  likely  your 
first  masquerade  will  be  your  last;  and  for  the  wine-mer- 
chant actor  that  you  were  to  see  at  Goodman's  Fields  to- 
morrow, you  may  whistle  for  him;  and  for  your  dear  Amore- 


A   DISCOVERY  49 

voli.  It's  to  be  hoped,  Miss  Lucy,  you'll  find  your  Thomas 
worth  it,"  she  continued,  alluding  to  the  farce  that  held 
the  town,  "  when  you  get  him."  And  then,  changing  her 
ground,  with  no  little  skill,  "  See  here,  child,"  she  said,  in 
the  tone  of  one  willing  to  argue,  "  are  you  going  on  with 
this  silliness?  Think,  my  dear,  think,  while  it  is  time,  for 
'twill  be  too  late  at  Chalkhill.  You  don't  want  to  go  and 
be  buried  in  that  hole  till  your  brother  comes  of  age?  " 

Sophia,  resentful  but  terrified,  subdued  both  by  the  pros- 
pect and  by  the  appeal  to  her  reasonableness,  had  hard  work 
to  refrain  from  tears  as  she  uttered  her  negative.  "  No,  I — 
I  don't  want  to  go,"  she  stammered. 

"  I  thought  not;  then  you  shall  have  one  more  chance," 
Mrs.  Northey  answered,  with  a  fair  show  of  good  nature. 
"  If  you'll  give  me  your  word  not  to  write  to  him,  you 
shall  have  a  week  to  think  of  it  before  you  go.  But  you'll 
keep  your  room — on  that  I  must  insist;  there  you'll  have 
time  to  think,  and  I  hope  by  the  end  of  the  week  you'll  have 
come  to  your  senses,  my  dear.  If  not,  you'll  go  to  Aunt 
Leah." 

The  mixture  of  severity  and  kindness  was  clever,  and 
it  had  its  effect  upon  poor  Sophia,  who  stood  weighing 
the  alternatives  with  a  rueful  face.  While  she  remained 
in  town,  if  she  might  not  see  him,  she  was  still  near  him, 
and  he  near  her.  She  would  not  be  lost  to  him  nor  he 
to  her;  and  then,  what  might  not  happen  in  a  week?  "  I 
will  promise,"  she  murmured,  in  a  low  uncertain  tone. 

"  Good,"  Mrs.  Northey  answered;  "  then  you  may  go  to 
your  room." 

And  to  her  room  Sophia  would  have  gone,  in  a  mood 
fairly  open  to  the  influence  of  reason  and  solitude.  But  in 
an  evil  moment  for  himself  Mr.  Northey,  smarting  under 
a  defeat  which  his  wife's  victory  rendered  the  more  humili- 
ating, thought  he  espied  an  opportunity  of  restoring  his 
dignity. 

4 


50  SOPHIA 

"  Yes,  you  may  go,"  he  said  sourly;  "  but  take  this  with 
you.  You  will  see  there,"  he  continued,  fussily  selecting  a 
letter  from  a  pile  on  the  table,  and  handing  it  to  her, 
"  what  are  the  terms  in  which  a  gentleman  seeks  an  alliance 
with  a  lady.  It  is  from  Sir  Hervey,  and  I  shall  be  much 
surprised  if  it  does  not  produce  a  very  different  impression 
on  you  from  that  which  that  person  has  made." 

"  I  do  not  want  it,"  Sophia  answered;  and  held  out  the 
letter  between  her  finger  and  thumb,  as  if  it  had  an  evil 
odour. 

"  But  I  insist  on  your  taking  it,"  Mr.  Northey  replied 
with  temper;  and  in  spite  of  the  warnings  which  his  wife's 
contemptuous  shrugs  should  have  conveyed  to  him,  he 
repeated  the  command. 

"  Then  I  will  read  it  now,"  the  girl  answered,  standing 
very  upright,  "  if  you  order  me  to  do  so." 

"  I  do  order  you,"  he  said;  and  still  holding  the  folded 
sheet  a  little  from  her,  she  opened  it,  and  with  a  curling 
lip  and  half  averted  eye,  began  to  read  the  contents.  Sud- 
denly Mrs.  Northey  took  fright;  Mr.  North ey  even  was  sur- 
prised by  the  change.  For  the  girl's  face  grew  red  and 
redder;  she  stared  at  the  letter,  her  lips  parting  widely,  as 
in  astonishment.  At  last,  "What?  What  is  this?"  she 
cried,  "  Tom?    Then  it  was — it  was  Tom  I  saw  last  night." 

"  Tom!  "  Mr.  Northey  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  it  was  Tom!"  Sophia  cried;  "and — oh,  but  this 
is  dreadful!  This  must  be — must  be  stopped  at  once!  "  she 
continued,  looking  from  the  paper  to  them  and  back  again 
with  distended  eyes.  "  He  is  mad  to  think  of  such  a  thing 
at  his  age;  he  is  only  a  boy;  he  does  not  know  what  he  is 
doing."    Her  voice  shook  with  agitation. 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  mean,  miss?"  her  brother- 
in-law  thundered,  rising  furious  from  his  chair.  "  Have 
you  taken  leave  of  your  senses?  What  do  you  mean  by  this 
— this  nonsense." 


A   DISCOVERY  51 

"  Mean  ?  "  his  wife  answered  with  bitter  emphasis.  "  She 
means  that,  instead  of  giving  her  Coke's  letter,  you  have 
given  her  the  Cambridge  letter;  the  letter  from  Tom's  tutor. 
You  have  done  it,  like  the  fool  you  always  are,  Northey." 

Mr.  Northey  swore  violently.  "  Give  it  me! "  he  cried 
harshly.  "Do  you  hear,  girl?  Give  it  me!"  And  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  recover  the  letter. 

But  something  in  the  excess  of  his  chagrin,  or  in  the 
words  of  the  reproach  Mrs.  Northey  had  flung  at  him 
roused  suspicion  in  the  girl's  mind.  She  recoiled,  holding 
the  paper  from  him.  "  It  is  five  days  old! "  she  gasped; 
"  you  have  had  it  four  days — three  at  least;  and  you  have 
said  nothing  about  it.  You  have  not  told  me!  And  you 
have  done  nothing! "  she  continued,  her  mind  jumping  in- 
stinctively to  the  truth,  at  which  Mr.  Northey's  guilty  face 
hinted  not  obscurely.  "  He  is  on  the  brink  of  ruining  him- 
self with  this  woman,  and  you  stand  by  though  you  are  told 
what  she  is,  and  were  told  three  days  ago.  Why?  Why?  " 
Sophia  cried,  as  Mr.  Northey,  with  an  oath,  snatched  the 
letter  from  her.    "  What  does  it  mean?  " 

"  Mean  ?  Why,  that  one  unruly  child  is  enough  to 
manage  at  a  time!"  Mrs.  Northey  answered,  rising  to  the 
occasion.  She  spoke  with  venom,  and  no  wonder;  her 
hands  tingled  for  her  husband's  ears.  He  had  improved 
matters  with  a  vengeance.  "It's  fine  talking,  you  little 
toad,"  she  continued,  with  a  show  of  reason;  "  but  if  you 
don't  listen  to  sense  who  are  here,  how  are  we  to  persuade 
him,  and  he  not  here?  Tell  me  that,  miss.  A  nice  pattern 
of  discretion  and  prudence  you  are  to  talk.  Hang  your 
impudence!  " 

"  But  you  have  done  nothing,"  Sophia  wailed,  her  affec- 
tion for  her  brother  keeping  her  to  the  point,  "  And  I  saw 
him  last  night;  it  was  he  whom  I  saw  at  Vauxhall.  I  could 
have  spoken  to  him,  and  I  am  sure  he  would  have  listened 
to  me." 


52  SOPHIA 

"  Listened  to  his  grandmother!  "  Mrs.  North  ey  retorted, 
with  acrid  contempt.  "  We  have  done  what  we  think  right, 
and  that  is  enough  for  you,  you  baby.  A  nasty  disobedient 
little  toad,  running  into  the  very  same  folly  yourself,  and 
then  prating  of  us,  and  what  we  should  do!  Hang  your  fine 
talking;  I've  no  patience  with  you,  and  so  I  tell  you,  miss." 

"  But,"  Sophia  said  slowly,  her  voice  grown  timid,  "  I 
don't  understand " 

"  Who  cares  whether  you  understand!  " 

"  Why — why  you  make  so  much  of  marrying  me  the 
way  you  wish,  and  yet  let  him  go  his  way?  If  he  does 
this,  you'll  get  some  of  his  money  I  know,  but  it  cannot 
be  that.  It  couldn't  be  that.  And  yet— and  yet — "  she 
cried,  with  a  sudden  flush  of  generous  indignation,  as  con- 
viction was  borne  in  upon  her  by  Mr.  Northey's  hang-dog 
face — "  yes,  it  is  that!  Oh,  for  shame!  for  shame!  Are  you 
his  sister,  and  will  ruin  him?  Will  ruin  him  for  the  sake 
of — of  money!  " 

"  Silence,  you  minx!  "  Mrs.  Northey  cried;  and  she  rose, 
her  face  white  with  rage,  and  seizing  her  sister's  arm,  she 
shook  her  violently.  "  How  dare  you  say  such  things?  Do 
you  hear?    Be  silent!  " 

But  Sophia  was  beside  herself  with  passion,  she  would 
not  be  silent.  Neither  the  dead  Northeys  on  the  walls, 
nor  the  living  sister  should  stifle  the  expression  of  her 
feelings. 

"  I  take  back  my  promise,"  she  cried,  panting  with  ex- 
citement; her  words  were  scarcely  coherent.  "Do  you 
hear?  Do  you  understand?  I  promise  nothing  after  this. 
You  may  beat  me  if  you  like;  you  may  lock  me  up,  it  will 
be  all  the  same.  I'll  go  into  the  country  to-morrow,  but 
I'll  make  no  promise.  I  shall  see  Hawkesworth  if  I  can!  I 
shall  run  away  to  him  if  I  can!  I'd  rather  do  anything — 
anything  in  the  world  after  this,  than  go  on  living  with 
you." 


A  DISCOVERT  53 

"You'll  not  go  on  living  with  me!"  Mrs.  Northey  an- 
swered through  pinched  lips,  and  her  eyes  glittered  after  an 
ugly  fashion.  "  I'll  see  to  that,  you  little  scald-tongue! 
You'll  go  to  Aunt  Leah  and  feed  pigs,  and  do  plain-stitch; 
I  hope  it  may  agree  with  those  dainty  hands  of  yours.  And 
you'll  run  away  from  there  if  you  can.  She'll  see  to  that. 
I'll  be  bound  she'll  break  some  of  that  pretty  spirit  of 
yours,  grand  as  you  think  yourself.  So  because  your  pre- 
cious Tom  chooses  to  take  up  with  some  drab  or  other,  you 
put  it  on  us,  do  you?  Go,  you  little  vixen,"  Mrs.  Northey 
continued  harshly,  "  go  to  your  room  before  I  do  you  a  mis- 
chief! You'll  not  promise,  but  the  key  shall.  Up,  miss, 
up,  we  will  have  no  more  of  your  tantrums!  " 

Eeduced  to  tears,  and  broken  down  by  the  violence  of 
her  emotions,  Sophia  asked  nothing  better  than  to  escape, 
and  be  alone  with  her  misery.  She  turned,  and  as  quickly 
as  she  could  she  hurried  from  the  room.  Fast  as  she  went, 
however,  Mrs.  Northey  pushed  after  her,  treading  on  her 
heels,  and  forcing  her  on.  What  passed  between  them  Mr. 
Northey  could  not  hear,  but  in  no  long  time  Mrs.  Northey 
was  down  again,  and  flung  a  key  on  the  table.  "  There," 
she  cried,  her  nose  twitching  with  the  constraint  she  put 
upon  her  rage.  "  And  what  do  you  think  of  your  manage- 
ment now,  Mr.  Imbecile  ?  " 

'  I  always  said,"  he  answered  sullenly,  "  that  we  ought 
to  tell  her." 

"You  always  said." 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"  You  always  said!  "  his  wife  cried,  her  eyes  flashing  with 
the  scorn  she  made  no  attempt  to  hide.  "And  was  not 
that  a  very  good  reason  for  doing  the  other  thing?  Wasn't 
it,  Mr.  Northey?  Wasn't  it?  Oh,  Lord!  why  did  God  give 
me  a  fool  for  a  husband?  " 


CHAPTEE  V 

THE    WOELD    WELL    LOST 

Mrs.  Northey  was  no  novice.  She  knew  something  of 
intrigue,  something  of  her  sex.  Her  first  step  was  to  dis- 
charge Sophia's  woman,  a  village  maid,  who  had  come  with 
her  young  mistress  from  the  country.  The  key  of  the 
offender's  chamber  was  then  intrusted  to  madam's  own 
woman,  Mrs.  Martha,  a  sour  spinster,  matured  not  by  years 
only,  but  by  an  unfortunate  experience  of  the  other  sex, 
which  secured  her  from  the  danger  of  erring  on  the  side  of 
leniency  where  they  were  concerned.  Mr.  Northey  could 
not  immediately  leave  London,  therefore  it  was  necessary 
that  arrangements  for  the  culprit's  transport  to  the  surer 
custody  of  Aunt  Leah  at  Chalkhill  should  be  postponed, 
but  all  that  Mrs.  Northey  could  do  short  of  this  she  did. 
And  these  dispositions  made,  she  prepared  to  await  events 
with  a  mind  tolerably  at  ease. 

In  every  net,  however,  there  are  meshes,  and  small  is 
the  mesh  through  which  a.  large  fish  cannot  escape.  It 
is  probable  that  poor  blubbering  Dolly,  the  dismissed  maid, 
innocent  as  she  declared  herself,  was  in  somebody's  pay, 
and  knew  where  information  could  be  sold.  For  before 
Sophia  had  been  confined  to  her  room  for  four  hours,  be- 
fore the  first  passionate  tears  were  dried  on  her  cheeks,  a 
clock-maker,  who  had  come  in  to  regulate  the  tall  clock  on 
the  stairs,  made  the  odd  mistake  of  mounting,  when  no  one 
was  looking,  to  the  second  floor.  A  moment  later  a  finger- 
nail scraped  Sophia's  door,  a  note  was  thrust  under  it,  and 
deftly  as  he  had  come,  the  workman,  a  pale,  fat,  elderly 

54 


THE   WORLD   WELL  LOST  55 

man,  crept  down  again.    He  made  little  noise,  for,  to  save 
his  honour's  drugget,  he  had  left  his  boots  in  the  hall. 

Sophia,  recovering  from  a  momentary  astonishment, 
pounced  on  the  note,  opened  it  and  read  it;  and,  alas  for 
her  discretion,  her  eyes  sparkled  through  her  tears  as  she 
did  so.    Thus  it  ran: — 

"  Sweetest  and  Best  Beloved  of  youe  Sex, — 

"  The  raptures  of  my  heart  when  my  eyes  dwell  on 
yours  cannot  be  hidden,  and  must  have  convinced  you 
that  on  you  depends  the  life  or  death,  happiness  or  misery, 
of  your  Hector.  If  you  will,  you  can  plunge  me  into  an 
abyss  of  hopelessness,  in  which  I  must  spend  the  rest  of  my 
existence;  or  if  you  will,  you  can  make  me  in  possessing  you 
the  happiest,  as  I  am  already  in  aspiring  to  you  the  boldest, 
of  mankind.  Oh,  my  Sophia,  dare  I  call  you  that?  Can 
such  bliss  be  reserved  for  me?  Can  it  be  my  lot  to  spend  ex- 
istence in  the  worship  of  those  charms,  for  which  the  adora- 
tion of  the  longest  life  passed  in  thinking  of  you  and 
serving  you  were  an  inadequate  price !  May  I  dream  that  I 
shall  one  day  be  the  most  enviable  of  men?  If  so,  there  is 
but  one  course  to  be  taken.  Fly,  clearest,  fly,  your  cruel 
relatives,  who  have  already  immured  you,  and  will  pres- 
ently sacrifice  you,  innocent  and  spotless,  on  the  vile  altar 
of  their  ambition.  Hold  a  white  handkerchief  against  your 
window  at  six  this  evening,  and  the  rest  is  easy.  At  dusk 
the  day  after  to-morrow — so  much  time  I  need — I  will  find 
means  to  remove  you.  A  few  minutes  later,  Dr.  Keith,  of 
Mayfair  Chapel,  a  reverend  divine,  who  will  be  in  waiting 
at  my  lodging,  will  unite  you  in  indissoluble  bonds  to  one 
whose  every  thought  thenceforth — not  given  to  his  King — 
will  be  consecrated  to  the  happiness  of  his  Sophia. 

"  Already  my  heart  beats  with  rapture;  I  swoon  at  the 
thought.  The  pen  falls  from  the  hand  of  your  humble, 
adoring  lover, 

"  HECTOR  (Count  Plomee)." 


56  '  SOPHIA 

Need  we  wonder  that  Sophia  held  the  letter  from  her 
and  held  it  to  her,  scanned  it  this  way,  and  scanned  it  that 
way,  kissed  it,  and  kissed  it  again;  finally,  with  a  glance  at 
the  door,  hid  it  jealously  within  her  dress?  She  would  have 
done  these  things  had  she  been  as  much  in  the  dark  about 
Tom,  and  the  machinations  formed  to  rob  him,  as  she  had 
been  when  she  rose  that  morning.  But  she  would  have 
halted  there.  She  would  have  pardoned  her  lover  his  bold- 
ness, perhaps  have  liked  him  the  better  for  it;  but  she  would 
not  have  granted  his  prayer.  Now,  her  one  aspiration  was 
for  the  moment  when  she  might  take  the  leap.  Her  one 
feeling  was  impatience  for  the  hour  when  she  might  give 
the  signal  of  surrender.  The  pillars  of  her  house  were 
shaken;  her  faith  in  her  sister,  in  her  friends,  in  her  home 
was  gone.  Only  her  lover  remained,  and  if  he  were  not  to 
be  trusted  she  had  no  one.  She  did  not  tell  herself  that 
girls  had  done  this  thing  before,  maiden  modesty  notwith- 
standing, and  had  found  no  cause  to  repent  their  confi- 
dence; for  her  determination  needed  no  buttressing.  Her 
cheek  flamed,  and  she  thrilled  and  trembled  from  head  to 
foot  as  she  pictured  the  life  to  which  she  was  flying;  but 
the  cheek  flamed  as  hotly  when  she  painted  the  past  and 
the  intolerable  craft  and  coldness  of  the  world  on  which 
she  turned  her  back. 

The  window  of  her  room  looked  into  Arlington  Street. 
She  stood  at  it  gazing  down  on  the  stand  of  chairmen  and 
sedans  that  stretched  up  to  Portugal  Street,  a  thorough- 
fare now  part  of  Piccadilly.  The  end  of  the  scaffolding 
outside  Sir  Kobert  Walpole's  new  house — the  house  next 
door — Came  within  a  few  feet  of  the  sill  on  which  she 
leaned;  the  hoarse,  beery  voices  of  the  workmen,  and  the 
clangour  of  the  hammers,  were  destined  to  recall  that  day 
to  her  as  long  as  she  lived.  Yet  for  the  time  she  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  noise,  so  close  was  the  attention 
with  which  she  surveyed  the  street.     Below,  as  on  other 


THE   WO&LD  WELL  LOST  57 

days,  beaux  sauntered  round  the  corner  of  Bennet  Street 
on  their  way  to  White's,  or  stood  to  speak  to  a  pretty  woman 
in  a  chair.  Country  folk  paused  to  look  at  Sir  Bluestring's 
new  house;  a  lad  went  up  and  down  crying  the  Evening 
Post,  and  at  the  corner  at  the  lower  end  of  Arlington  Street, 
then  open  at  the  south,  a  group  of  boys  sat  gambling  for 
half-pence. 

Sophia  saw  all  this,  but  she  saw  no  sign  of  him  she 
sought,  though  St.  James's  clock  tolled  the  three  quarters 
after  five.  Eagerly  she  looked  everywhere,  her  heart  beat- 
ing quickly.  Surely  Hawkesworth  would  be  there  to  see 
the  signal,  and  to  learn  his  happiness  with  his  own  eyes? 
She  leaned  forward,  then  on  a  sudden  she  recoiled;  Sir 
Hervey  Coke,  passing  on  the  other  side,  had  looked  up; 
he  knew,  then,  that  she  was  a  prisoner!  Her  woman's 
pride  rebelled  at  the  thought,  and  hot  with  anger  she 
stood  awhile  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Whereon  St. 
James's  clock  struck  six;  it  was  the  hour  appointed.  With- 
out hesitation,  without  the  loss  of  a  moment,  Sophia  sprang 
to  the  window,  and  with  a  steady  hand  pressed  her  handker- 
chief to  the  pane.    The  die  was  cast. 

She  thought  that  on  that  something  would  happen;  she 
felt  sure  that  she  would  see  him,  would  catch  his  eye,  would 
receive  some  mark  of  his  gratitude.  But  she  was  disap- 
pointed; and  in  a  minute  or  two,  after  gazing  with  a  bold 
bashfulness  this  way  and  that,  she  went  back  into  the  room, 
her.  spirits  feeling  the  reaction.  For  eight  and  forty  hours 
from  this  she  had  naught  to  do  but  wait;  for  all  that  time 
she  was  doomed  to  inaction.  It  seemed  scarcely  possible 
that  she  could  wait  so  long;  scarcely  possible  that  she  could 
possess  herself  in  patience.  The  first  hour  indeed  tried 
her  so  sharply  that  when  Mrs.  Martha  brought  her  supper 
she  was  ready  to  be  humble  even  to  her,  for  the  sake  of 
five  minutes'  intercourse. 

But  Mrs.  Martha's  conversation  was  as  meagre  as  the 


58  SOPHIA 

meal  she  brought,  and  the  girl  had  to  pass  the  night  as  best 
she  could. '  Next  morning,  however,  when  the  woman — 
after  jealously  unlocking  the  door  and  securing  it  behind 
her  after  a  fashion  that  shook  the  girl  with  rage — set  down 
her  breakfast,  the  crabbed  old  maid  was  more  communi- 
cative. 

"  Thank  the  Lord,  it  is  a'most  the  last  time  I  shall 
have  to  climb  those  stairs,"  she  grumbled.  "Aye,  you 
may  look,  miss  " — for  Sophia  was  gazing  at  her  resentfully 
enough — "and  think  yourself  mighty  clever!  It's  little 
you  think  of  the  trouble  your  fancies  give  such  as  me. 
There!"  putting  down  the  tray.  "You  may  take  your 
fill  of  that  and  not  burst,  either.  Maybe  'tain't  delicate 
enough  for  your  stomach,  but  'twas  none  of  my  putting." 

Sophia  was  hungry  and  the  meal  was  scanty,  but  pride 
made  her  avert  her  eyes.  "  Why  is  it  almost  the  last  time?  " 
she  asked  sharply.  "  If  they  think  they  can  break  my  spirit 
by  starving  me " 

"  Hoity  toity!  "  the  woman  said,  with  more  than  a  smack 
of  insolence.  "  I'd  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  porridge  if 
I  were  you!  Lord,  I  wouldn't  have  your  hot  temper,  miss, 
for  something.  But  'twon't  help  you  much  with  your 
Aunt  Leah,  from  all  I  hear.  They  say  she  was  just  such  a 
one  as  you  once,  and  wilful  is  no  word  for  her." 

Sophia's  heart  began  to  beat.  "Am  I  to  go  to  her?" 
she  asked. 

"  Aye,  that  you  are,  and  the  sooner  the  better  for  my 
legs,  miss! " 

"  When?  "    Sophia's  voice  was  low. 

"  To-morrow,  no  later.  The  chaise  is  ordered  for  six. 
His  honour  will  take  you  himself,  and  I  doubt  you'll  wish 
you'd  brought  your  pigs  to  another  market  before  you've 
been  there  many  days.  Leastways,  from  what  I  hear.  'Tis 
no  place  for  a  decent  Christian,  I'm  told,"  the  woman  con- 
tinued, spitefully  enjoying  the  dismay  which  Sophia  could 


OH,     LA!      1    DON  T    WANT    TO    STAY!        .MRS.     MARTHA    CRIED 


THE   WORLD   WELL  LOST  59 

not  conceal.  "Just  thatch  and  hogs  and  mud  to  your 
knees,  and  never  a  wheeled  thing,  John  says,  in  the  place, 
nor  a  road,  nor  a  mug  of  beer  to  be  called  beer.  All  poor  as 
rats,  and  no  one  better  than  the  other,  as  how  should  they 
be  and  six  miles  of  a  pack-road  to  the  nearest  highway? 
You'll  whistle  for  your  lover  there,  miss." 

Sophia  swallowed  her  rage.    "  Go  down!  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  la!  I  don't  want  to  stay!  "  Mrs.  Martha  cried,  toss- 
ing her  head.  "  It's  not  for  my  own  amusement  I've  stayed 
so  long.  And  no  thanks  for  my  kindness,  either!  I've  my 
own  good  dinner  downstairs,  and  the  longer  I'm  here  the 
cooler  it'll  be.  Which  some  people  like  their  dinner  hot 
and  behave  themselves  accordingly.  But  I  know  my  duty, 
and  by  your  leave,  miss,  I  shall  do  it." 

She  bounced  out  of  the  room  with  that  and  turned  the 
key  on  the  outside  with  a  noisy  care  that  hurt  the  ear  if  it 
did  not  wound  the  spirit.  "  Nasty  proud-stomached 
thing!  "  she  muttered  as  she  descended  the  stairs.  "  I  hope 
Madam  Leah  will  teach  her  what's  what!  And  for  all  she's 
monstrous  high  now,  I  warrant  she'll  come  to  eating  breast 
of  veal  as  well  as  another.  And  glad  to  get  it.  What  Sir 
'Ervey  can  see  in  her  passes  me,  but  men  and  fools  are  all 
one,  and  it  takes  mighty  little  to  tickle  them  if  it  be  red 
and  white.  For  my  part  I'm  glad  to  be  rid  of  her.  One's 
tantrums  is  as  much  as  I  can  put  up  with,  duty  or  no  duty." 

Mrs.  Martha  might  have  taken  the  matter  more  easily 
had  she  known  what  was  passing  in  the  locked  room  she 
had  left.  Sophia's  indifference  was  gone;  she  paced  the 
floor  in  a  fever  of  uncertainty.  How  was  she  to  communicate 
with  her  lover?  How  tell  him  that  his  plans  were  fore- 
stalled, and  that  on  the  morrow,  hours  before  his  arrange- 
ments were  mature,  she  would  be  whisked  away  and  buried 
in  the  depths  of  the  country,  in  a  spot  the  most  remote 
from  the  world?  True,  at  the  foot  of  his  letter  was  the 
address  of  his  lodging — at  Mr.  Wollenhope's  in  Davies 


60  SOPHIA 

Street,  near  Berkeley  Square.  And  Dolly — though  Sophia 
had  never  yet  stooped  to  use  her — might  this  evening  have 
got  a  letter  to  him.  But  Dolly  was  gone;  Dolly  and  all  her 
friends  were  far  away,  and  Mrs.  Martha  was  stone.  Sophia 
wrung  her  hands  as  she  walked  feverishly  from  door  to 
window. 

She  knew  nothing  of  the  hundred  channels  through 
which  a  man  of  the  world  could  trace  her.  To  her  eyes 
the  door  of  Chalkhill  bore  the  legend  Dante  had  made 
famous.  To  her  mind,  to  go  to  Aunt  Leah  was  to  be  lost 
to  her  lover,  to  be  lost  to  the  world.  And  yet  what  chance 
of  escape  remained?  Vainly  thinking,  vainly  groping,  she 
hung  at  the  window  tearing  a  handkerchief  to  pieces,  while 
her  eyes  raked  the  street  below  for  the  least  sign  of  him 
she  sought.  There  were  the  same  beaux  strutting  round 
the  same  corner,  hanging  on  the  same  arms,  bowing  to  the 
same  chairs,  ogled  from  the  shelter  of  the  same  fans.  The 
same  hackney-coachmen  quarrelled,  the  same  boys  gambled 
at  the  corner.  Even  Sir  Hervey  paused  at  the  same  hour  of 
the  afternoon,  looked  up  as  he  had  looked  up  yesterday, 
seemed  to  hesitate,  finally  went  on.  But  Hawkesworth — 
Hawkesworth  was  nowhere. 

Her  eyes  aching  with  long  watching,  the  choke  of  com- 
ing tears  in  her  throat,  Sophia  drew  back  at  last,  and  was  in 
the  act  of  casting  herself  on  her  bed  in  a  paroxysm  of  de- 
spair, when  a  shrill  voice  speaking  outside  her  door  reached 
her  ears.     The  next  moment  she  heard  her  name. 

She  sprang  to  the  door,  the  weight  lifted  from  her  heart. 
Any  happening  was  better  than  none.  "  Here!  "  she  cried. 
"  Here!  "     And  she  struck  the  panels  with  her  hands. 

"Where?  Oh,  I  see,"  the  voice  answered.  Then 
"  Thank  you,  my  good  woman,"  it  went  on,  "  I'll  trouble 
you  no  farther.  I  can  open  for  myself.  I  see  the  key  is 
in  the  lock." 

But  on  that  Mrs.  Martha's  voice  was  raised,  loudly  re- 


THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST  61 

monstrant.     "  My  lady,"  she  cried,  "  you  don't  understand! 
I've  the  strictest  orders " 

"To  keep  her  in?  Just  so,  you  foolish  thing.  And  so 
you  shall.  But  not  to  keep  me  out.  Still — just  to  be  sure 
I'll  take  the  key  in  with  me!  "  On  which  Sophia  heard  the 
key  turn  sharply  in  the  lock,  the  door  flew  open,  and  in 
bounced  Lady  Betty.  To  insert  the  key  on  the  inside  and 
secure  the  door  behind  her  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  Then 
she  dropped  the  astonished  Sophia  an  exaggerated  curtsey. 

"  La,  miss,  I  crave  your  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  "  for 
calling  your  name  so  loud  on  the  stairs,  but  that  silly  thing 
would  do  nothing  but  her  orders.  So  as  she  would  not  show 
me  the  way,  I  ran  up  myself." 

"  You're  very  kind !  "  Sophia  said.  And  she  stood,  trem- 
bling, and  feeling  sudden  shame  of  her  position. 

Lady  Betty  seemed  to  see  this.  "La!  is  it  true  they  won't 
let  you  out?  "  she  said. 

Sophia  muttered  that  it  was. 

The  visitor's  eyes  roved  from  the  meagre  remains  of  the 
midday  meal  to  the  torn  shreds  of  handkerchief  that  strewed 
the  floor.  "  Then  it's  a  shame!  It's  a  black  monstrous 
shame!  "  she  cried,  stamping  on  the  floor.  "  I  know  what 
I  should  do  if  they  did  it  to  me!  I  should  break,  I  should 
burn,  I  should  tear!  I  should  tear  that  old  fright's  wig  off 
to  begin!     But  I  suppose  it's  your  sister?  " 

"  Yes." 

Lady  Betty  made  a  face.  "  Horrid  thing! ';  she  ex- 
claimed. "  I  never  did  like  her!  Is  it  because  you  won't 
— is  it  because  you  have  a  lover,  miss?  " 

Sophia  hesitated.  "La,  don't  mind  me.  I  have  five! " 
the  child  cried  naively.  "  I'll  tell  you  their  names  if  you 
like.  They  are  nothing  to  me,  the  foolish  things,  but  I 
should  die  if  I  hadn't  as  many  as  other  girls.  To  see  them 
glare  at  one  another  is  the  finest  sport  in  the  world." 

"  But  you  love  one  of  them?  "  Sophia  said  shyly. 


62  SOPHIA 

"  La,  no,  it's  for  them  to  love  me!  "  Lady  Betty  cried, 
tossing  her  head.    "  I  should  be  a  fool  if  I  loved  them!  " 

"  But  the  letter — that  I  tore  up?  "  Sophia  ventured. 

The  child  blushed,  and  with  a  queer  laugh  flung  herself 
on  the  other's  neck  and  kissed  her.  "  That  was  from  a — 
a  lover  I  ought  not  to  have,"  she  said.  "  If  it  had  been 
found,  I  should  have  had  my  ears  boxed,  and  been  sent  into 
the  country.  You  saved  me,  you  duck,  and  I'll  never  forget 
it!" 

Sophia  bent  on  the  most  serious  imprudence  could  be  wise 
for  another.  "  From  a  lover  whom  you  ought  not  to  have?  " 
she  said  gravely.  "You'll  not  do  it  again,  will  you? 
You'll  not  receive  a  second  ?  " 

"  La,  no,  I  promise  you,"  Lady  Betty  cried,  volubly  in- 
sistent. "  He's — well,  he's  a  nobody,  but  he  writes  such 
dear,  darling,  charming  notes!  There,  now  you  know.  Oh, 
yes,  it  was  horrid  of  me.  But  I  hate  him.  So  that's 
enough." 

"  You  promise?  "  Sophia  said,  almost  severely. 

"  I  vow  I  do,"  Lady  Betty  cried,  hugging  her.  "  The 
creature's  a  wretch.  Now  tell  me,  you  poor  thing,  all  about 
Mm.     I've  told  you  my  affair." 

Here  was  indeed  a  blind  leader  of  the  blind,  but  after  a 
little  hesitation  Sophia  told  her  story.  She  was  too  proud 
to  plead  the  justification  her  sister's  treatment  of  Tom  sup- 
plied; nor  was  there  need  of  this.  Even  in  the  bud,  Lady 
Betty  found  the  story  beautiful;  and  when  Sophia  went  on 
to  her  lover's  letter,  and  blushing  and  faltering  owned  that 
he  had  pressed  her  to  elope,  the  listener  could  contain  her- 
self no  longer.  "Elope!"  she  cried,  springing  up  with 
sparkling  eyes.  "  Oh,  the  dear  bold  man !  Oh,  how  I  envy 
you! " 

"Envy  me?" 

"  Yes!  To  be  locked  in  your  room  and  starved — I  hope 
they  starve  you — and  scolded  and  threatened  and  perhaps 


THE  WORLD   WELL  LOST  63 

carried  into  the  country.  And  all  the  time  to  be  begged  and 
prayed  and  entreated  to  elope,  and  the  dear  creature  wailing 
and  sighing  and  consuming  below.  Oh,  you  lucky,  lucky, 
lucky,  girl ! "  And  Lady  Betty  flung  herself  on  Sophia's  neck 
and  embraced  her  again  and  again.  "You  lucky  thing! 
And  then  perhaps  to  be  forced  to  escape  down  a  ladder " 

"  Escape  ?  "  Sophia  said,  shaking  her  head  piteously. 
And  she  explained  how  far  she  was  from  escaping.  "  By 
this  time  to-morrow,"  she  continued,  choked  by  the  bitter 
feelings  the  thought  of  to-morrow  begot,  "  I  shall  be  at 
Chalkhill! " 

"  No,  you  will  not!  "  Lady  Betty  cried,  her  eyes  sparkling. 
"  You  will  not!  "  she  repeated.  "  By  good  luck  'tis  between 
lights.  Put  on  your  hoop  and  sacque.  Take  my  hat  and 
laced  jacket.  Bend  your  knees  as  you  go  down  the  stairs, 
you  gawk,  and  no  one  will  be  a  bit  the  wiser." 

Sophia  stared  at  her.     "  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  said. 

"  Northey's  at  the  House,  your  sister's  at  Lady  Paget's," 
the  girl  explained  breathlessly.  "  There  is  only  the  old 
fright  outside,  and  she's  had  a  taste  of  my  tongue  and  won't 
want  another.  You  may  walk  straight  out  before  they  bring 
candles.  I  shall  wait  ten  minutes  until  you  are  clear,  and 
then,  though  they'll  know  it's  a  bite,  they  won't  dare  to  stop 
my  ladyship,  and — oh,  you  darling,  it  will  be  the  purest, 
purest  fun.  It  will  be  all  over  the  town  to-morrow,  and  I 
shall  be  part  of  it!  " 

Sophia  shuddered.  "  Fun?  "  she  said.  "  Do  you  call  it 
fun?" 

"Why,  of  course  it  will  be  the  purest,  purest  fun! "  the 
other  cried.  "  The  prettiest  trick  that  ever  was  played! 
You  darling,  we  shall  be  the  talk  of  the  town!  "  And  in  the 
gaiety  of  her  heart,  Lady  Betty  lifted  her  sacque,  and  danced 
two  or  three  steps  of  a  minuet.  "  We  shall — but  how  you 
look,  miss!    You  are  not  going  to  disappoint  me?  " 

Sophia  stood  silent.     "  I  am  afraid,"  she  muttered. 


64  SOPHIA 

"Afraid?    Afraid  of  what?  " 

"  I  am  afraid." 

"  But  you  were  going  to  him  to-morrow  ?  " 

Sophia  blushed  deeply.  "  He  was  coming  for  me,"  she 
murmured. 

"  Well,  and  what  is  the  difference  ?  " 

The  elder  girl  did  not  answer,  but  her  cheeks  grew  hot- 
ter and  hotter.     "  There  is  a  difference,"  she  said. 

"  Then  you'll  go  to  Chalkhill!  "  Lady  Betty  cried  in  de- 
rision, her  voice  betraying  her  chagrin.  "  La,  miss,  I  vow 
I  thought  you'd  more  spirit!  or  I  would  not  have  troubled 
you!  " 

Sophia  did  not  retort;  indeed,  she  did  not  hear.  In  her 
heart  was  passing  a  struggle,  the  issue  of  which  must  decide 
her  lot.  And  she  knew  this.  She  was  young,  but  she  knew 
that  as  her  lover  showed  himself  worthy  or  unworthy  of  her 
trust  so  must  her  fate  be  happy  or  most  miserable,  if  she 
went  to  him.  And  she  trembled  under  the  knowledge. 
Chalkhill,  even  Chalkhill  and  Aunt  Leah's  stinging  tongue 
and  meagre  commons  seemed  preferable  to  a  risk  so  great. 
But  then  she  thought  of  Tom,  and  of  the  home  that  had 
grown  cold;  of  the  compensations  for  home  in  which  others 
seemed  to  find  pleasure,  the  flippant  existence  of  drums  and 
routs,  the  card-table  and  the  masquerade.  And  in  dread, 
not  of  Chalkhill,  but  of  a  loveless  life,  in  hope,  not  of  her 
lover,  but  of  love,  she  wrung  her  hands.  "  I  don't  know!  " 
she  cried,  the  burden  of  decision  forcing  the  words  from  her 
as  from  one  in  pain.     "  I  don't  know!  " 

"What?" 

"  Whether  I  dare  go!  " 

"  Why,"  Lady  Betty  asked  eagerly,  "  there  is  no  risk." 

"  Child!  child,  you  don't  understand,"  poor  Sophia 
wailed.  "  Oh,  what,  oh,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  If  I  go  it  is 
for  life.  Don't  you  understand?"  she  added  feverishly. 
"  Cannot  you  see  that?     It  is  for  life!  " 


THE  WORLD   WELL  LOST  65 

Lady  Betty,  startled  by  the  other's  passion,  could  only 
answer,  "But  you  were  going  to-morrow,  miss?  If  you 
were  not  afraid  to  go  to-morrow " 

"  Why  to-day  ?  "  Sophia  asked  bitterly.  "  If  I  could  trust 
him  to-morrow,  why  not  to-day?  Because — because — oh, 
I  cannot  tell  you!  "  And  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

The  other  saw  that  she  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot, 
and  reluctantly  accepted  a  situation  she  only  partly  under- 
stood.    "  Then  you  won't  go?  "  she  said. 

The  word  "  No  "  trembled  on  Sophia's  lips.  But  then 
she  saw  as  in  a  glass  the  life  to  which  she  condemned  herself 
if  she  pronounced  it;  the  coldness,  the  worldliness,  the  love- 
lessness,  the  solitude  in  a  crowd,  all  depicted,  not  with  the 
compensating  lights  and  shadows  which  experience  finds  in 
them,  but  in  crude  lines  such  as  they  wear  in  a  young  girl's 
fancy.  In  the  past  was  nothing  to  retain  her;  in  the  future 
her  lorer  beckoned;  only  maiden  modesty  and  dread  of  she 
knew  not  what  withstood  a  natural  impulse.  She  would 
and  she  would  not.  Painfully  she  twisted  and  untwisted 
her  fingers,  while  Lady  Betty  waited  and  looked. 

On  a  sudden  in  Arlington  Street  a  small-coalman  raised 
his  shrill  cry;  she  had  heard  it  a  score  of  times  in  the  last 
two  days;  now  she  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  to  hear 
it  again.  It  was  a  small  thing,  but  her  gorge  rose 
against  it.  "I  will  go!"  she  cried  hoarsely.  "Give  me 
the  clothes." 

Lady  Betty  clapped  her  hands  like  a  child  at  play.  "  You 
will?  Oh,  brave!"  she  cried.  "Then  there's  not  a  min- 
ute to  be  lost,  miss.  Take  my  laced  jacket  and  hat.  But 
stay — you  must  put  on  your  sacque  and  hoop.  Where 
are  they?  Let  me  help  you.  And  won't  you  want  to 
take  some — la,  you'll  have  nothing  but  what  you  stand 
up  in!  " 

Sophia  winced,  but  pursued  her  preparations  as  if  she  had 
5 


66  SOPHIA 

not  heard.  In  feverish  haste  she  dragged  out  what  she 
wanted,  and  in  five  minutes  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
arrayed  in  Lady  Betty's  jacket  and  hat,  which,  notwith- 
standing the  difference  in  height,  gave  her  such  a  passing 
resemblance  to  the  younger  girl  as  might  deceive  a  person 
in  a  half  light. 

"  You'll  do!  y:  Lady  Betty  cried;  all  to  her  was  sport. 
"  And  you'll  just  take  my  chair:  it's  a  hack,  but  they  know 
me.  Mutter  '  home,'  and  stop  'em  where  you  like — and  take 
another!     D'yousee?" 

The  two  girls — their  united  ages  barely  made  up  thirty- 
four — flung  themselves  into  one  another's  arms.  Held  thus, 
the  younger  felt  the  wild  beating  of  Sophia's  heart,  and  put 
her  from  her  and  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  qualm  of 
doubt  and  fear  and  perception. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "if  he  is  not  good  to  you!  If  he — 
don't!  don't!"  she  continued,  trembling  herself  in  every 
limb.  "Let  me  take  off  your  things.  Let  me!  Don't 
go!" 

But  Sophia's  mind  was  now  made  up.  "No,"' she  said 
firmly;  and  then,  looking  into  the  other's  eyes,  "  Only  speak 
of  me  kindly,  child,  if — if  they  say  things." 

And  before  Lady  Betty,  left  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
darkening  room — where  the  reflection  of  the  oil  lamps  in 
the  street  below  was  beginning  to  dance  and  flicker  on  the 
ceiling — had  found  words  to  answer,  Sophia  was  half-way 
down  the  stairs.  The  staircase  was  darker  than  the  room, 
and  detection,  as  Lady  Betty  had  foreseen,  was  almost  im- 
possible. Mrs.  Martha,  waiting  spitefully  outside  her  mis- 
tress's door  on  the  first  floor  landing,  saw  as  she  thought, 
"that  little  baggage  of  a  ladyship  ".go  down;  and  she  fol- 
lowed her  muttering,  but  with  no  intention  of  intercepting 
her.  John  in  the  hall,  too,  saw  her  coming,  and  threw  wide 
the  door,  then  flew  to  open  the  waiting  chair.  "  Home,  my 
lady?  "  he  asked  obsequiously,  and  passed  the  word;  finally, 


THE   WORLD    WELL  LOST  67 

when  the  chair  moved  off,  he  looked  up  and  down,  and  came 
in  slowly,  whistling.  Another  second,  and  the  door  of  the 
house  in  Arlington  Street  slammed  on  Sophia. 

"  And  a  good  riddance!  "  muttered  Mrs.  Martha,  looking 
over  the  balusters.     "  I  never  could  abear  her!  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    CHAIR    AND    A    COACH 

The  glasses  of  the  chair,  which  had  heen  standing  some  time 
at  the  door,  were  dimmed  by  moisture,  and  in  the  dusk  of 
the  evening  its  trembling  occupant  had  no  cause  to  fear 
recognition.  But  as  the  men  lifted  and  bore  her  from  the 
door,  every  blurred  light  that  peeped  in  on  her,  and  in  an 
instant  was  gone,  every  smoking  shop-lamp  that  glimmered 
a  moment  through  the  mist,  and  betrayed  the  moving  forms 
that  walked  the  sideway,  was,  to  Sophia,  an  eye  noting  and 
condemning  her.  As  the  chairmen  swung  into  Portugal 
Street,  and,  turning  eastwards,  skirted  the  long  stand  of 
coaches  and  the  group  of  link-men  that  waited  before  Bur- 
lington House,  she  felt  that  all  eyes  were  upon  her,  and  she 
shrank  farther  and  farther  into  the  recesses  of  the  chair. 

A  bare-footed  orange  girl,  who  ran  beside  the  window 
waving  ballads  or  bills  of  the  play,  a  coach  rattling  up  be- 
hind and  bespattering  the  glass  as  it  passed,  a  link-boy  peer- 
ing in  and  whining  to  be  hired,  caused  her  a  succession  of 
panics.  On  top  of  these,  the  fluttering  alarms  of  the  mo- 
ment, pressed  the  consciousness  of  a  step  taken  that  could 
never  be  retraced;  nor  was  it  until  the  chairmen,  leaving 
Piccadilly  behind  them,  had  entered  the  comparative  quiet 
of  Air  Street,  and  a  real  difficulty  rose  before  her,  that  she 
rallied  her  faculties. 

The  men  were  making  for  Soho,  and  if  left  to  take  their 
course,  would,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  set  her  down  at  the 
door  of  Lady  Betty's  home  in  King's  Square.     That  would 

68 


A   CHAIR  AND  A   COACH  69 

not  do.  But  to  stay  them,  and  to  vary  the  order  from 
"  Home  "  to  Mr.  Wollenhope's  house  in  Davies  Street,  where 
her  lover  lodged,  did  not  now  seem  the  simple  and  easy  step 
it  had  appeared  a  few  minutes  earlier,  when  the  immediate 
difficulty  was  to  escape  from  the  house.  Lady  Betty  had 
said  that  the  men  knew  her.  In  that  case,  as  soon  as  Sophia 
spoke  to  them  they  would  scent  something  wrong,  and,  ap- 
prised of  the  change  of  fares,  might  wish  to  know  more. 
They  might  even  decline  to  take  her  whither  she  bade  them ! 

The  difficulty  was  real,  but  for  that  very  reason  Sophia's 
courage  rose  to  meet  it.  At  present  she  knew  where  she 
was;  a  minute  or  two  later  she  might  not  know.  The  sooner 
she  took  the  route  into  her  own  hands,  therefore,  the  better 
it  would  be;  and  as  the  men  turned  from  the  narrow  street 
of  Air  into  Brewer  Street  and  swung  to  the  right  towards 
Soho,  she  tapped  the  glass.  The  chair  moved  on.  With 
impatience,  natural  in  the  circumstances,  Sophia  tapped 
again  and  more  sharply.  This  time  the  front  bearer  heard, 
and  gave  the  word.  The  chair  was  set  down,  and  the  man, 
wiping  his  brow,  raised  the  lid. 

"  What  is  it,  my  lady  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  rich  Irish  accent. 
"  Shure,  and  isn't  it  right  ye  are?  If  we  went  by  Windmill 
Street,  which  some  would  be  for  going,  there's  a  sight  of 
coaches  that  way." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  King's  Square,"  Sophia  answered 
firmly. 

"  Eh,  my  lady,  no?     But  you  said  '  Home.' ; 

"  I  want  to  go  to  the  West  End  again,"  Sophia  said. 
"  I've  remembered  something;  I  want  to  go  to  Davies 
Street." 

"Faith,  but  it's  a  fine  trate  your  ladyship's  had,"  the 
Irishman  cried  good-humouredly,  "  and  finely  I  should  be 
scolded  if  his  noble  lordship  your  father  knew  'twas  with 
us  you  went;  but  it's  home  now  you  must  go;  you've  played 
truant  long  enough,  my  lady!     And — holy  Mother!  " — with 


70  SOPHIA 

a  sudden  exclamation — "'Tis  not  your  ladyship!  Oh,  the 
saints,  Micky,  she's  changed!  " 

The  second  chairman  came  round  the  chair,  stared,  and 
rubbed  his  head;  and  the  two  gazed  in  perplexity  at  poor 
Sophia,  whose  face  alone  appeared  above  the  side  of  the 
conveyance.  "  Take  me  to  Davies  Street  by  Berkeley 
Square,"  she  commanded,  tapping  the  front  impatiently. 
"  To  Mr.  Wollenhope's  house.  What  does  it  matter  to  you 
where  I  go?  " 

"To  Davies  Street?" 

"  Yes;  cannot  you  hear?  " 

"  Faith,  and  I  hear,"  the  Irishman  answered,  staring. 
"  But  then,  the  saints  help  us,  'tis  not  yourself.  'Twas  her 
ladyship  hired  me  to  go  to  Arlington  Street,  and  to  take 
her  home,  and  it's  not  leaving  her  I'll  be! " 

"  But  her  ladyship  lent  me  the  chair!  "  Sophia  cried  des- 
perately. "  She'll  take  another.  Cannot  you  understand? 
She  knows  all  about  it.     Now  take  me  to  Davies  Street." 

Her  voice  trembled  with  anxiety,  for  at  any  moment  she 
might  be  seen  and  recognised.  A  lamp  in  an  oilman's  win- 
dow, one  of  the  few  lights  that  at  long  intervals  broke  the 
dull  gloom  of  Brewer  Street,  shone  on  the  group.  Already 
a  couple  of  chairs  had  swung  by,  the  carriers  casting,  as  they 
passed,  a  curious  look  at  the  stationary  chair;  and  now  a 
coach,  approaching  from  the  Soho  direction,  was  near  at 
hand.  Every  second  she  delayed  there  was  a  second  on  the 
rack.  What  would  Sir  Hervey  or  Lord  Lincoln,  what  would 
any  of  the  hundred  acquaintances  she  had  made  since  she 
cnine  to  town  say  of  a  girl  found  unprotected,  after  night- 
fall, astray  in  the  public  streets? 

Alas,  the  men  still  hesitated,  and  while  they  stood  staring 
the  coach  came  up.  Before  Sophia  could  add  reproaches  to 
her  commands,  it  was  checked  opposite  the  group.  The 
coachman  leant  down,  and  in  a  tone  of  disappointment — 
as  if  it  were  only  then  he  saw  that  the  chair  was  occupied — 


A   CHAIR  AND   A   COACH  71 

"You've  a  fare,  have  you?"  he  said.  "You  can't  take  a 
lady  to  Crown  Court,  King  Street  ?  " 

Before  the  Irishman  could  answer,  "  Here  my  man,"  a 
woman's  voice  cried  from  the  coach,  "  I  want  to  go  to  Crown 
Court,  St.  James's,  and  the  coach  can't  enter.  Double  fare 
if  you  are  quick!     Here,  let  me  out!  " 

"  But,  faith,  ma'am,  I've  a  fare,"  Mick  cried. 

"  They've  a  fare,"  the  coachman  explained,  leaning  down 
anew. 

"  The  fare  can  take  my  coach,"  the  voice  answered  im- 
periously; and  in  a  twinkliug,  a  smartly  dressed  woman, 
wearing  red  and  white  and  plenty  of  both,  yet  handsome 
after  a  fashion,  had  pushed,  first  her  hoop  and  then  herself 
out  of  the  coach.  "  See  here,  ma'am,"  she  cried,  seeing 
Sophia's  scared  face,  "  the  coach  is  paid,  and  will  take  you 
anywhere  in  reason.  'Twill  make  no  difference  to  you  and 
all  to  me,  and  a  mite  of  good  nature  is  never  thrown  away! 
I've  to  go  where  a  coach  cannot  go.  Up  a  court,  you  un- 
derstand." 

Sophia  hesitated.  Why  did  not  the  lady,  whose  bold  eyes 
did  not  much  commend  her,  pursue  her  way  to  Portugal 
Street,  and  descend  there,  where  chairs  might  be  had  in 
plenty?  Or  why,  again,  was  she  in  such  a  clamorous  hurry 
and  so  importunate?  On  the  other  hand,  if  all  were  right, 
nothing  could  have  fallen  out  more  happily  for  herself;  it 
was  no  wonder  that,  after  a  momentary  hesitation,  she  gave 
a  grudging  assent.  One  of  the  chairmen,  who  seemed  will- 
ing enough  to  make  the  change,  opened  the  door;  she  stepped 
out  and  mechanically  climbed  into  the  coach.  "  To  Davies 
Street,  Mayfair,"  she  said,  sinking  back.  "  To  Mr.  Wollen- 
hope's,  if  you  please." 

Quickly  as  she  took  her  part,  the  strange  lady  was  quicker; 
in  a  second  she  was  in  the  chair  and  the  chair  was  gone.  It 
seemed  to  vanish.  A  moment  and  the  coach  also  started, 
and  lumbered  westwards  along  Brewer  Street.     Now  at  last 


72  SOPHIA 

Sophia  was  at  liberty  to  consider — with  no  obstacle  short  of 
Mr.  Wollenhope's  door — how  she  should  present  herself  to 
her  lover,  and  how  it  behoved  him  to  receive  her. 

She  found  it  more  easy  to  answer  the  second  question 
than  the  first.  Well  indeed  she  knew  how  it  became  him  to 
receive  her.  If  in  men  survived  any  delicacy,  any  rever- 
ence, any  gratitude,  these  were  her  due  who  came  to  him 
thus;  these  must  appear  in  his  greeting,  or  the  worst  guided, 
the  most  hapless  of  maids,  was  happy  beside  her.  He  must 
show  himself  lover,  brother,  parent,  friend,  in  his  one  per- 
son; for  he  was  her  all.  The  tenderest  homage,  the  most 
delicate  respect,  a  tact  that  foreran  offence,  a  punctilio  that 
saw  it  everywhere,  the  devotion  of  a  Craven,  the  gratitude 
of  a  Peterborough,  were  her  right  who  came  to  him  thus, 
a  maiden  trusting  in  his  honour.  She  was  clear  on  this; 
and  not  once  or  twice,  but  many  times,  many  times  as  she 
pressed  one  hand  on  the  other  and  swallowed  the  tell-tale 
lump  that  rose  and  rose  in  her  throat,  she  swore  that  if  she 
did  not  meet  with  these,  if  he  did  not  greet  her  with  them, 
plain  in  eye  and  lip — aye,  and  with  a  thousand  dainty  flow- 
ers of  love,  a  thousand  tender  thoughts  and  imaginings,  not 
of  her,  but  for  her — she  had  better  have  been  the  mud 
through  which  the  wheels  of  her  coach  rolled! 

It  was  natural  enough  that,  so  near,  so  very  near  the 
crisis,  she  should  feel  misgiving.  The  halt  in  the  dark 
street,  the  chill  of  the  night  air,  had  left  her  shivering;  had 
left  her  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  loneliness  and  home- 
lessness.  The  question  was  no  longer  how  to  escape  from 
a  prison,  but  how,  having  escaped,  she  would  be  received  by 
him,  who  must  be  her  all.  The  dice  were  on  the  table,  the 
throw  had  been  made,  and  made  for  life;  it  remained  only 
to  lift  the  box.  For  a  little,  a  very  little  while,  since  a  mat- 
ter of  minutes  only  divided  her  from  Davies  Street,  she  hung 
b(  ■  I  ween  the  old  life  and  the  new,  her  heart  panting  vaguely 
for  the  sympathy  that  had  been  lacking  in  the  old  life,  for 


A   CHAIR  AND  A   COACH  73 

the  love  that  the  new  life  had  in  store.  "Would  she  find 
them?  Child  as  she  was,  she  trembled  now  that  she  stood 
on  the  brink.  A  few  minutes  and  she  would  know.  A  few 
minutes,  and 

The  coach  stopped  suddenly,  with  a  jerk  that  flung  her 
forward.  She  looked  out,  her  heart  beating.  She  was 
ready  to  descend.  But  surely  this  was  not  Davies  Street? 
The  road  was  very  dark.  On  the  left,  the  side  on  which  the 
door  opened,  a  dead  wall,  overhung  by  high  trees,  con- 
fronted her. 

"  Where  ami?"  she  cried,  her  hand  on  the  fastening  of 
the  door,  her  voice  quivering  with  sudden  fright.  "  We  are 
not  there?  " 

"  You  are  as  far  as  you'll  go,  mistress,"  a  rough  voice  an- 
swered from  the  darkness.  "  Sorry  to  alter  your  plans.  A 
fine  long  chase  you've  given  us."  And  from  the  gloom  at 
the  horses'  heads,  two  men  advanced  to  the  door  of  the 
coach. 

She  took  them  for  footpads.  The  dead  wall  had  much 
the  appearance  of  the  wall  of  Burlington  Gardens,  where  it 
bounds  Glasshouse  Street;  at  that  spot,  she  remembered,  a 
coach  had  been  robbed  the  week  before.  She  prepared  to 
give  up  her  money,  and  was  groping  with  a  trembling  hand 
for  a  little  knitted  purse,  when  the  men,  still  grumbling, 
opened  the  door. 

"I  suppose  you  know  what's  what,"  the  foremost  said. 
"  At  suit  of  Margott's  of  Paul's  Churchyard.  You'll  go  to 
my  house,  I  take  it?     You'll  be  more  genteel  there." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  Sophia  muttered,  her  heart  sink- 
ing. 

"  Oh,  don't  come  the  innocent  over  us! "  the  man  an- 
swered coarsely.  "  Here's  the  capias.  Forty-eight,  seven, 
six,  debt  and  costs.  It's  my  house  or  the  Marshalsea.  One 
or  the  other,  and  be  quick  about  it.  If  you've  the  cash  you'd 
better  come  to  me." 


74  SOPHIA 

"  There's  some  mistake,"  Sophia  gasped,  involuntarily  re- 
treating into  the  furthest  corner  of  the  coach.  "  You  take 
me  for  some  one  else." 

The  bailiffs — for  such  they  were — laughed  at  the  joke. 
"  I  take  you  for  Mrs.  Clark,  alias  Grocott,  alias  anything  else 
you  please,"  the  spokesman  answered.  "  Come,  no  non- 
sense, mistress;  it's  not  the  first  time  you've  been  behind 
bars.  I  warrant  with  that  face  you'll  soon  find  some  one  to 
open  the  door  for  you." 

"  But  I'm  not  Mrs.  Clark,"  Sophia  protested.  "  I'm  not 
indeed." 

"  Pooh,  pooh! " 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  not  Mrs.  Clark!  "  she  cried.  "  Indeed, 
indeed,  I  am  not!  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  she  con- 
tinued desperately.  "  Please  let  me  go  on."  And  in  great 
distress  she  tried  to  close  the  door  on  them. 

The  bailiff  prevented  her.  "  Come,  no  nonsense,  mis- 
tress," he  repeated.  "  These  tricks  won't  serve  you.  We 
were  waiting  for  you  at  the  Ipswich  stage;  you  got  the  start 
there,  and  very  cleverly,  I  will  allow.  But  my  mate  got 
the  number  of  the  coach,  and  if  we  had  not  overtaken  you 
here  we'd  have  nabbed  you  in  Davies  Street.  You  see  we 
know  all  about  you,  and  where  you  were  bound.  Now 
where's  it  to  be?  " 

Sophia,  at  the  mention  of  Davies  Street,  began  to  doubt 
her  own  identity;  but  still  repeated,  with  the  fierceness  of 
despair,  that  she  was  not  the  person  they  sought.  "  I  am 
not  Mrs.  Clark!"  she  cried.  "I  only  took  this  coach  in 
Brewer  Street.     You  can  ask  the  coachman." 

"  Ah,  I  might,  but  T  shouldn't  get  the  truth!  " 

"  But  it  is  the  truth!  "  Sophia  cried  piteously;  truly  pun- 
ishment bad  fallen  on  her  quickly!  "It  is  the  truth!  It 
is  indeed !  " 

The  bailiff  seemed  to  be  a  little  shaken  by  her  earnestness. 
He  exchanged  a  few  words  with  his  fellow.     Then,  "  We'll 


A   CHAIR  AND  A   COACH  75 

take  the  risk,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  come  out,  ma'am,  or 
shall  I  come  in?  " 

Sophia  trembled.  "  Where  are  you  going  to  take  me?  " 
she  faltered. 

"  To  my  house,  where  it's  ten  shillings  a  day  and  as  gen- 
teel company  as  you'd  find  in  St.  James's! "  the  fellow  an- 
swered. "  S'help  me,  you'll  be  at  home  in  an  hour!  I've 
known  many  go  in  all  of  a  shake,  that  with  a  glass  of  mulled 
wine  and  cheerful  company  were  as  jolly  by  nightfall  as 
Miss  at  a  fair!';  And  without  waiting  for  more,  the  man 
climbed  into  the  coach  and  plumped  down  beside  her. 

Sophia  recoiled  with  a  cry  of  alarm.  "  La !  "  he  said,  with 
clumsy  good  nature,  "  you  need  not  be  afraid.  I'm  a  mar- 
ried man.  You  sit  in  your  corner,  ma'am,  and  I'll  sit  in 
mine.  Bless  you,  I'm  sworn  to  do  my  duty.  Up  you  get, 
Trigg! " 

The  second  bailiff  mounted  beside  the  coachman,  the 
coach  was  turned,  and  in  a  trice  Sophia  was  once  more 
trundling  eastwards  through  the  streets.  But  in  what  a 
condition! 

In  the  power  of  a  vulgar  catchpoll,  on  her  way  to  a  low 
sponging  house,  she  saw  herself  borne  helpless  past  the 
house  that,  until  to-day,  she  had  called  her  home!  True, 
she  had  only  to  prove  who  she  was  in  order  to  be  released. 
She  had  only  to  bid  them  turn  aside  and  stop  at  Mr. 
Northey's  mansion,  and  a  single  question  and  answer  would 
set  her  free.  But  at  what  a  cost!  Overwhelmed  and  terri- 
fied, at  her  wits'  end  how  to  bear  herself,  she  yet  shrank  from 
such  a  return  as  that ! 

Gladly  would  she  have  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  wept  tears  of  bitter  mortification.  But  the  crisis  was 
too  sharp,  the  difficulty  too  urgent  for  tears.  What  was  she 
to  do?  Allow  herself  to  be  carried  to  her  destination,  and 
there  incarcerated  with  vile  persons  in  a  prison  which  her 
ignorance  painted  in  the  darkest  colours?     Or  avow  the 


76  SOPHIA 

truth,  bid  them  take  her  to  her  brother-in-law's,  and  there 
drain  the  cup  of  ignominy  to  the  dregs?  In  either  case  deci- 
sion must  be  speedy.  Already  Arlington  Street  lay  behind 
them;  they  were  approaching  St.  James's  Church.  They 
were  passing  it.  Another  minute  and  they  would  reach  the 
end  of  the  Haymarket. 

Suddenly  she  clapped  her  hands.  "  Stop! "  she  cried. 
"  Tell  them  to  stop!  There's  Lane's.  They  know  me  there. 
They'll  tell  you  that  I  am  not  the  person  you  think.  Please 
stop!" 

The  bailiff  nodded,  put  out  his  head,  and  gave  the  order. 
Then,  as  the  coach  drew  up  to  the  shop,  he  opened  the 
door,  "  Now,  no  tricks!  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  If  you  go  a  yard 
from  me  I  nab  you.  Smooth's  my  name  when  I'm  well 
treated;  but  if  Mr.  Lane  knows  you  I'll  take  his  word,  and 
ask  your  pardon.    I'm  not  unreasonable." 

Sophia  did  not  pause  to  reply,  but  descended,  and  with 
hot  cheeks  hurried  across  the  roadway  into  the  well-known 
silk-mercer's.  Fortunately,  the  shop,  at  certain  times  of  the 
day  the  resort  of  Piccadilly  bloods,  was  deserted  at  this  late 
hour.  All  the  lamps  but  one  were  extinguished,  and  by  the 
light  of  this  one,  Mr.  Lane  and  two  apprentices  were  stow- 
ing goods  under  the  counter.  A  third  young  man  stood 
looking  on  and  idly  swinging  a  cane;  but  to  Sophia's  relief 
he  retired  through  the  open  door  at  the  back,  which  re- 
vealed the  cosy  lights  of  a  comfortable  parlour. 

The  tradesman  advanced,  bowing  and  rubbing  his 
hands.  "  Dear  me,"  he  said,  "  you  are  rather  late,  ma'am, 
but  anything  we  can  do — William,  relight  the  lamps." 

"  No,"  Sophia  cried.  "  I  do  not  want  anything.  1  only 
— Mr.  Lane,"  she  continued,  blushing  deeply,  "  will  you  be 
good  enough  to  tell  this  person  who  I  am." 

"  Dear,  dear,  my  lady,"  Mr.  Lane  exclaimed,  becoming 
in  a  moment  a  very  Hector,  "  you  don't  mean  that — what 
is  this,  my  man,  what  does  it  mean?  Let  me  tell  you  I've 
several  stout  fellows  on  the  premises,  and " 


A   CHAIR  AND  A   COACH  77 

"  No  need,"  the  bailiff  answered  gruffly.  "  I  only  want 
to  know  who  the — who  the  lady  is."  He  looked  crest- 
fallen already.  He  saw  by  the  lamp-light  that  his  prisoner 
was  too  young;  a  mere  girl  in  her  teens.  And  his  heart 
misgave  him. 

"  This  is  Miss  Maitland,  sister-in-law  to  the  honourable 
Mr.  Northey,  of  Arlington  Street,  and  the  House,"  the 
tradesman  answered  majestically.  "  Now,  my  man,  what 
is  it?  " 

"  You  are  sure  that  she  is  not  a — a  Mrs.  Oriana  Clark?  " 
the  bailiff  asked,  consulting  his  writ  for  the  name. 

"  No  more  than  I  am !  "  Mr.  Lane  retorted,  sniffing  con- 
temptuously.   "  What  do  you  mean  by  such  nonsense?  " 

"  Nothing  now,"  the  discomfited  bailiff  answered;  and 
muttering  "I  am  sure  I  beg  her  ladyship's  pardon!  Beg 
her  pardon!  No  offence!"  he  bent  his  head  with  ready 
presence  of  mind  and  hurried  out  of  the  shop;  his  retreat 
facilitated  by  the  fact  that  Sophia,  overcome  by  her  sudden 
release,  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  giddiness,  which  compelled 
her  to  cling  to  the  shop-board. 

In  a  moment  the  good  Lane  was  all  solicitude.  He  placed 
a  chair  for  her,  called  for  volatile  salts,  and  bade  them 
close  the  door  into  the  street.  Sending  the  staring  appren- 
tices about  their  business,  he  hustled  out  to  procure  some 
water;  but  in  this  he  was  anticipated  by  the  young  man 
whom  she  had  seen  in  the  shop  when  she  entered.  Too 
faint  at  the  moment  to  remark  from  what  hand  she  took 
it,  Sophia  drank,  and  returned  the  glass.  Then,  a  little 
revived  by  the  draught,  and  sensible  of  the  absurdity  of  the 
position,  she  tried  to  rise,  with  a  smile  at  her  weakness. 
But  the  young  man  who  had  brought  the  water,  and  who 
had  something  of  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  foppishly  and 
effeminately  dressed,  implored  her  to  sit  awhile. 

"  Sure,  ma'am,  you  can't  be  rested  yet! "  he  cried,  hang- 
ing over  her  with  a  solicitude  that  seemed  a  little  excessive. 


78  SOPHIA 


a 


Such  an  outrage  on  divine  beauty  merits — stap  me!  the 
severest  punishment.  I  shall  not  fail,  ma'am,  to  seek  out 
the  low  beast  and  chastise  him  as  he  deserves." 

"  There  is  no  need,"  Sophia  answered,  looking  at  the 
spark  with  mild  surprise:  she  was  still  too  faint  to  resent 
his  manner.  "  I  am  better  now,  I  thank  you,  sir.  I  will 
be  going." 

"  Stap  me,  not  yet! "  he  cried  effusively.  "  A  little  air, 
ma'am?  "  and  he  fell  to  fanning  her  with  his  hat,  while  his 
black  eyes  languished  on  hers.  "  'Twill  bring  back  the 
colour,  ma'am.  Has  your  ladyship  ever  tried  Florence 
Avater  in  these  attacks?  It  is  a  monstrous  fine  specific,  I  am 
told." 

"  I  am  not  subject  to  them,"  Sophia  answered,  forced 
to  avert  her  eyes.  This  movement,  as  it  happened,  brought 
her  gaze  to  the  open  door  of  the  parlour;  where,  to  her  as- 
tonishment, she  espied  Mr.  Lane,  standing,  as  it  were,  in 
ambush,  dwelling  on  the  scene  in  the  shop  with  a  face  of 
childish  pleasure.  Now  he  softly  rubbed  his  hands;  now  he 
nodded  his  head  in  an  ecstasy.  A  moment  Sophia  watched 
him,  her  own  face  in  shadow;  then  she  rose  a  little  dis- 
pleased, and  more  puzzled. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  bowing  stiffly.  "  Be  good 
enough  to  see  if  my  coach  is  there." 

The  beau,  taken  aback  by  her  manner,  turned  to  the 
silk  mercer,  who  came  slowly  forward.  "  Is  her  ladyship's 
coach  there?"  the  young  gentleman  cried  with  great  state- 
liness. 

Mr.  Lane  hurried  obsequiously  to  the  door,  looked  out, 
and  returned.  "  Dear,  dear,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "  I  fear  those 
wretches  took  it.    But  I  can  send  for  a  chair." 

"Call  one,  call  one!"  the  gentleman  commanded.  "I 
shall  see  the  lady  to  her  door." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Sophia  answered  quickly.  "It  is  not 
necessary." 


A   CHAIR  AND  A   COACH  79 

"  It  is  very  necessary  at  this  hour,"  Mr.  Lane  inter- 
posed; and  then  apologised  for  his  intervention  by  rubbing 
his  hands.  "  I  could  not  think  of — of  letting  you  go  from 
here,  ma'am,  without  an  escort!"  he  continued,  with  an- 
other low  bow.    "  And  this  gentleman,  Mr. " 

"  Fanshaw,  man,  Fanshaw,"  the  young  spark  said,  strok- 
ing his  cravat  and  turning  his  head  with  an  absurd  air  of 
importance.  "  Your  humble  servant  to  command,  ma'am. 
Eichard  Fanshaw,  Esquire,  of  Warwickshire.  'Tis  certain 
I  must  attend  you  so  far;  and — and  oh,  hang  this!  "  he  con- 
tinued, breaking  off  in  a  sudden  fit  of  rage.  For  in  the  act 
of  bowing  to  her,  he  had  entangled  his  sword  in  a  roll  of 
Lyons  that  stood  behind  him.  "  Fellow,  what  the  deuce  do 
you  mean  by  leaving  rubbish  in  a  gentleman's  way?  "  and 
he  struggled  furiously  with  it. 

Sophia  could  scarcely  forbear  a  smile  as  Mr.  Lane  ran 
to  the  rescue.    Yet  with  all  his  efforts 

The  bold  knight  was  red 
And  the  good  stuff  was  shred 

before  the  little  beau  was  freed.  He  cursed  all  tailors,  and, 
to  hide  his  confusion,  hastened  rather  clumsily  to  hand  her 
to  the  chair. 

She  was  now  in  a  new  difficulty.  Lane  would  give  the 
order  "  Arlington  Street  ";  Mr.  Fanshaw,  smirking  and  tip- 
tapping  at  the  side,  would  insist  on  seeing  her  home.  And 
she  herself  for  an  instant,  as  the  cold  night  air  met  her  on 
the  threshold  of  the  oil-lit  street,  and  she  shivered  under  its 
touch,  hesitated.  For  an  instant  her  fears  pleaded  with 
her,  bade  her  take  warning  from  the  thing  that  had  already 
befallen  her,  whispered  "  Home!  "  At  that  hour  the  future, 
mirrored  on  the  gloomy  surface  of  the  night-street,  on  the 
brink  of  which  she  stood,  seemed  dark,  forlorn,  uncertain. 

But  her  pride  was  not  yet  conquered;  and  without  a  vast 


80  SOPHIA 

sacrifice  of  pride  she  could  not  return.  Her  escapade  would 
be  remembered  against  her;  she  would  be  condemned  for 
the  attempt,  and  despised  for  its  failure.  Home,  in  her 
case,  meant  no  loving  mother  longing  to  forgive,  no  fond 
tears,  no  kisses  mingled  with  reproaches;  but  sneers  and 
stinging  words,  disgrace  and  exile,  a  child's  punishment. 
Little  wonder  that  she  grew  hard  again,  since,  on  the  other 
side,  a  girl's  first  fancy  beckoned  roseate;  or  that,  when  she 
announced  with  an  easy  air  that  she  had  to  go  to  Davies 
Street,  Mr.  Lane  detected  nothing  suspicious  in  her  tone. 

"  Dear,  dear,  ma'am,  it's  rather  late,"  he  said.  "  And 
the  streets  not  too  secure.  But  Eich — Mr.  Fanshaw  will 
see  you  safe.  Much  honoured.  Oh,  much  honoured,  I  am 
sure,  ma'am.  Delighted  to  be  of  service.  My  humble  obedi- 
ence to  your  sister  and  Mr.  Northey." 

A  last  backward  glance  as  she  was  lifted  and  borne  from 
the  door  showed  her  Mr.  Lane  standing  in  his  shop-en- 
trance. He  was  looking  after  her  with  the  same  face  of 
foolish  admiration  which  she  had  before  surprised;  and  she 
wondered  afresh  what  it  meant.  Soon,  however,  her 
thoughts  passed  from  him  to  the  over-dressed  little  fop  who 
had  added  himself  to  her  train,  and  whose  absurd  attempts 
to  communicate  with  her  as  he  strutted  beside  the  glass, 
his  sword  under  his  arm  and  his  laced  hat  cocked,  were 
almost  as  amusing  as  the  air  of  superb  protection  which  he 
assumed  when  he  caught  her  eye.  Beally,  he  was  too  ridic- 
ulous. Moreover,  she  did  not  want  him.  His  presence  was 
uncalled  for  now;  and  when  she  reached  Davies  Street, 
might  involve  her  in  new  embarrassment.  She  would  have 
dismissed  him,  but  she  doubted  if  he  would  go;  and  to  open 
the  glass  and  make  the  attempt  might  only  incite  him  to 
greater  freedoms.  Sophia  bit  her  lip  to  repress  a  smile;  the 
little  beau  took  the  smile  for  encouragement,  and  kissed  his 
hand  through  the  glass. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN   DAVIES    STEEET 

The  chairmen  pushed  on  briskly  through  Piccadilly  and 
Portugal  Street  until  they  reached  the  turnpike  on  the 
skirts  of  the  town.  There,  turning  to  the  right  by  Berkeley 
Row,  they  reached  Berkeley  Square,  at  that  time  a  wide, 
unplanted  space,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  new  man- 
sions, and  on  the  fourth  by  the  dead  wall  of  Berkeley 
House.  For  lack  of  lighting,  or  perhaps  by  reason  of  the 
convenience  the  building  operations  afforded,  it  was  a 
favourite  haunt  of  footpads.  Sophia  was  a  prey  to  anxie- 
ties that  left  no  room  in  her  mind  for  terrors  of  this  class; 
and  neither  the  dark  lane,  shadowed  by  the  dead  wall  of 
Berkeley  Gardens  nor  the  gloomy  waste  of  the  square,  held 
any  tremors  for  her;  but  the  chairmen  hastened  over  this 
part  of  their  journey,  and  for  a  time  her  attendant  squire 
was  so  little  in  evidence  that  in  the  agitation  into  which  the 
prospect  of  arrival  at  her  lover's  threw  her,  she  forgot  his 
presence.  She  strained  her  eyes  through  the  darkness  to 
distinguish  the  opening  of  Davies  Street,  and  at  once 
longed  and  feared  to  see  it.  When  at  last  the  chair  halted, 
and,  pressing  her  hand  to  her  heart  to  still  the  tumult  that 
almost  stifled  her,  she  prepared  to  descend,  it  was  with  a 
kind  of  shock  that  she  discovered  the  little  dandy  mincing 
and  bowing  on  the  pavement,  his  hand  extended  to  aid  her 
in  stepping  from  the  chair. 

The  vexation  she  had  suppressed  before  broke  out  at  the 
sight.    She  bowed  slightly,  and  avoided  his  hand.    "  I  am 
6  81 


82  XOPHIA 

obliged  to  you,  sir/'  she  said  ungraciously;  "  I  won't  trouble 
you  farther.    Good  night,  sir." 

"  But — I  shall  see  you  back  to  Arlington  Street, 
ma'am?  "  he  lisped.  "  Surely  at  this  hour  an  escort  is  more 
than  ever  necessary.    I  declare  it  is  past  eight,  ma'am." 

It  was;  but  the  fact  put  in  words  stung  her  like  a  whip. 
She  winced  under  all  that  the  lateness  of  the  hour  implied. 
It  seemed  intolerable  that  in  a  crisis  in  which  her  whole 
life  lay  in  the  balance,  in  which  her  being  was  on  the  rack 
until  she  found  the  reception  that  should  right  her,  con- 
certing her  boldness  into  constancy,  her  forwardness  into 
courage — when  she  trembled  on  the  verge  of  the  moment 
in  which  her  lover's  eyes  should  tell  her  all — it  was  intoler- 
able that  she  should  be  harassed"  by  this  prating  dandy.  "  I 
shall  find  an  escort  here,"  she  cried  harshly.  "  I  need  you 
no  longer,  sir.    Good  night." 

"  Oh,  but  ma'am,"  he  protested,  bowing  like  a  Chinese 
mandarin,  "  it  is  impossible  I  should  leave  you  so.  Surely, 
there  is  something  I  can  do  for  your  ladyship." 

"  You  can  pay  the  chairmen!  "  she  cried  contemptuously; 
and  turning  from  him  to  the  door  before  which  the  chair 
had  halted,  she  found  it  half  open.  In  the  doorway  a 
woman,  her  back  to  the  light,  stood  blocking  the  passage. 
Doubtless,  she  had  heard  what  had  passed. 

Sophia's  temper  died  down  on  the  instant.  "  Is  this  Mr. 
Wollenhope's?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

An  hour  before  it  had  seemed  simple  to  ask  for  her  lover. 
Now  the  moment  was  come  she  could  not  do  it.  "  May  I 
come  in?  "  she  muttered,  to  gain  time. 

"  You  wish  to  see  me?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  the  chair  to  wait,  ma'am?  " 

Sophia  trembled.  It  was  a  moment  before  she  could 
find  her  voice.    Then,  "  No,"  she  answered  faintly. 


IN  DAVIES   STREET  83 

The  woman  looked  hard  at  her,  and  having  the  light 
at  her  back,  had  the  advantage.  "  Oh! "  she  said  at  last, 
addressing  the  men,  "  I  think  you  had  better  wait  a  min- 
ute." And  grudgingly  making  way  for  Sophia  to  enter,  she 
closed  the  door.  "  Now,  ma'am,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  said, 
standing  four-square  to  the  visitor.  She  was  a  stout,  elderly 
woman,  with  a  bluff  but  not  unkindly  face. 

"  Mr.  Hawkesworth  lodges  here?  " 

"  He  does,  ma'am." 

"  Is  he  at  home?  "  Sophia  faltered.  Under  this  woman's 
gaze  she  felt  a  sudden  overpowering  shame.  She  was  pale 
and  red  by  turns.  Her  eyes  dropped,  her  confusion  was 
not  to  be  overlooked. 

"  He  is  not  at  home,"  the  woman  said  shortly.  And  her 
look,  hostile  before,  grew  harder. 

Sophia  caught  her  breath.  She  had  not  thought  of  this, 
and  for  a  moment  she  was  so  overpowered  by  the  intelli- 
gence, that  she  had  to  support  herself  against  the  wall. 
"  When  will  he  return,  if  you  please?  "  she  asked  at  length, 
her  lip  quivering. 

"  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  say.  I  couldn't  say  at  all,"  Mrs. 
Wollenhope  answered  curtly.  "  All  I  know  is  he  went  out 
with  the  young  gentleman  at  five,  and  as  like  as  not  he  won't 
be  home  till  morning." 

Sophia  had  much  ado  not  to  burst  into  tears.  Apparently 
the  woman  perceived  this,  and  felt  a  touch  of  pity  for  her, 
for,  in  an  altered  tone,  "  Is  it  possible,"  she  asked,  "  you're 
the  young  lady  he's  to  marry  to-morrow?  " 

The  words  were  balm  to  the  girl's  heart.  Here  was  sure 
footing  at  last;  here  was  something  to  go  upon.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  more  boldly.    "  I  am." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Wollenhope  ejaculated.  "Oh!"  After 
which  she  stared  at  the  girl,  as  if  she  found  a  difficulty  in 
fitting  her  in  with  notions  previously  formed.  At  last, 
"  Well,  miss,"  she  said,  "  I  think  if  you  could  call  to- 


84  SOPHIA 

morrow?  "  with  a  dry  cough.  "  If  you  are  to  be  married 
to-morrow — it  seems  to  me  it  might  be  better." 

Sophia  shivered.  "  I  caunot  wait,"  she  said  desperately. 
"  I  must  see  him.  Something  has  happened  which  he  does 
not  know,  and  I  must  see  him,  I  must  indeed.  Can  I  wait 
here?    I  have  no  where  to  go." 

"  Well,  you  can  wait  here  till  nine  o'clock,"  Mrs.  Wol- 
lenhope  answered  less  dryly.  "  We  shut  up  at  nine."  Then, 
after  glancing  behind  her,  she  laid  her  hand  on  Sophia's 
sleeve.  "  My  dear,"  she  said,  lowering  her  voice,  "  begging 
pardon  for  the  liberty,  for  I  see  you  are  a  lady,  which  I 
did  not  expect — if  you'll  take  my  advice  you'll  go  back. 
You  will  indeed.    I  am  sure  your  father  and  mother " 

"  I  have  neither!  "  Sophia  said. 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear!  Still,  I  can  see  you've  friends,  and  if 
you'll  take  my  advice " 

She  was  cut  short.  "  There  you  are  again,  Eliza!  "  cried 
a  loud  voice,  apparently  from  an  inner  room.  "  Always 
your  advice!  Always  your  advice!  Have  done  meddling, 
will  you,  and  show  the  lady  upstairs." 

Mrs.  Wollenhope  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  if  the  inter- 
ruption were  no  uncommon  occurrence.  "  Very  well,"  she 
said  curtly;  and  turning,  led  the  way  along  the  passage. 
Sophia  followed,  uncertain  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  that 
the  good  woman's  warning  had  been  cut  short.  As  she 
passed  the  open  door  of  a  room  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  cheery  sea-coal  fire,  and  a  bald-headed 
man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  who  was  sitting  on  a  settle  beside 
it,  a  glass  of  punch  in  his  hand.  He  rose  and  muttered, 
"Your  servant,  ma'am!"  as  she  passed;  and  she  went  on 
and  saw  him  no  more.  But  the  vision  of  the  snug  back- 
parlour,  with  its  fire  and  lights,  and  a  red  curtain  hanging 
before  the  window,  remained  with  her,  a  picture  of  comfort 
and  quiet,  as  far  as  possible  removed  from  the  suspense  and 
agitation  in  which  she  had  passed  the  last  two  hours. 


IN  DAVIESS   STREET  85 

And  in  which  she  still  found  herself,  for  as  she  mounted 
the  stairs  her  knees  quaked  under  her.  She  was  ashamed, 
she  was  frightened.  At  the  head  of  the  flight,  when  the 
woman  opened  the  door  of  the  room  and  by  a  gesture  bade 
her  enter,  she  paused  and  felt  she  could  sink  into  the 
ground.  For  the  veriest  trifle  she  would  have  gone  down 
again.  But  behind  her — behind  her,  lay  nothing  that  had 
power  to  draw  her;  to  return  was  to  meet  abuse  and  ridicule 
and  shame,  and  that  not  in  Arlington  Street  only,  for  the 
story  would  be  over  the  town.  Lane  the  mercer,  whose 
shop  was  a  hotbed  of  gossip,  the  little  dandy  who  had  thrust 
himself  into  her  company,  and  tracked  her  hither,  the 
coachman  who  had  witnessed  the  arrest,  even  her  own 
friend  Lady  Betty — all  would  publish  the  tale.  Girls  whom 
she  knew,  and  from  whose  plain-spoken  gossip  she  had 
turned  a  prudish  ear,  would  sneer  in  her  face.  Men  like 
Lord  Lincoln  would  treat  her  with  the  easy  familiarity  she 
had  seen  them  extend  to  Lady  Vane,  or  Miss  Edwards. 
Women  she  respected,  Lady  Pomfret,  the  duchess,  would 
freeze  her  with  a  look.  Girls,  good  girls  like  Lady  Sophia, 
or  little  Miss  Hamilton — no  longer  would  these  be  her  com- 
pany. 

No,  she  had  gone  too  far;  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back; 
yet  she  felt,  as  she  crossed  the  threshold,  it  was  the  one 
thing  she  longed  to  do.  Though  Mrs.  Wollenhope  hastened 
to  light  two  candles  that  stood  on  a  table,  the  parlour  and 
the  shapes  of  the  furniture  swam  before  Sophia's  eyes.  The 
two  candles  seemed  to  be  four,  six,  eight;  nay,  the  room  was 
all  candles,  dancing  before  her.  She  had  to  lean  on  a  chair 
to  steady  herself. 

By-and-by  Mrs.  Wollenhope's  voice,  for  a  time  heard 
droning  dully,  became  clear.  "  He  was  up  above,"  the  good 
woman  was  saying.  "  But  he's  not  here  much.  He  lives  at 
the  taverns  of  the  quality,  mostly.  'Twas  but  yesterday  he 
told  me,  ma'am,  he  was  going  to  be  married.    You  can  wait 


86  SOPHIA. 

here  till  nine,  and  I'll  come  and  fetch  you  then,  if  he  has 
not  come  in.  But  you'd  best  be  thinking,  if  you'll  take  my 
advice,  what  you'll  do." 

"Now,  Eliza!"  Mr.  Wollenhope  roared  from  below;  to 
judge  from  the  sound  of  his  voice  he  had  come  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  "  Advising  again,  I'm  bound.  Always  advis- 
ing! Some  day  your  tongue  will  get  you  into  trouble,  my 
woman.  You  come  down  and  leave  the  young  lady  to  her- 
self." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  Mrs.  Wollenhope  muttered,  tossing  her 
head  impatiently.  "  I'm  coining.  Coming!  "  And  shield- 
ing her  light  with  her  hand,  she  went  out  and  left  Sophia 

alone. 

The  girl  remained  where  she  had  paused  on  entering,  a 
little  within  the  door,  her  hand  resting  on  a  chair.  And 
presently,  as  she  looked  about  her,  the  colour  began  to 
creep  into  her  face.  This  was  his  home,  and  at  the  thought 
she  forgot  the  past;  she  dreamed  of  the  future.  His  home! 
Here  he  had  sat  thinking  of  her.  Here  he  had  written 
the  letter!  Here,  perhaps  in  that  cupboard  set  low  in  the 
wainscot  beside  the  fire,  lay  the  secret  papers  of  which  he 
had  told  her,  the  Jacobite  lists  that  held  a  life  in  every 
signature,  the  Ormonde  letters,  the  plans  for  the  Scotch 
Rising,  the  cipher  promises  from  France!  Here,  sur- 
rounded by  perils,  he  wrote  and  studied  far  into  the  night, 
the  pistol  beside  the  pen,  the  door  locked,  the  keyhole 
stopped.  Here  he  had  lain  safe  and  busy,  while  the  hated 
Whig  approvers  drew  their  nets  elsewhere.  Sophia 
breathed  more  quickly  as  she  pictured  these  things;  as  she 
told  herself  the  story  Othello  told  the  Venetian  maid.  The 
attraction  of  the  man,  the  magic  of  the  lover,  dormant  dur- 
ing the  stress  she  had  suffered  since  she  left  Arlington 
Street,  revived;  the  girl's  eyes  grew  soft,  blushes  mantled 
over  her  cheeks.  She  looked  round  timidly,  almost  rever- 
ently, not  daring  to  advance,  not  daring  to  touch  anything. 


IN   DAVIES   STREET  87 

The  room,  which  was  not  large,  was  wainscotted  from 
ceiling  to  floor  with  spacious  panels,  divided  one  from  the 
other  by  fluted  pillars  in  shallow  relief,  after  the  fashion  of 
that  day.  The  two  windows  were  high,  narrow,  and  round- 
headed,  deeply  sunk  in  the  panelling.  The  fireplace,  in 
which  a  few  embers  smouldered,  was  of  Dutch  tiles.  On 
the  square  oak  table  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  a  pack  of 
cards  lay  beside  the  snuffer  tray,  between  the  tall  pewter 
candlesticks. 

She  noted  these  things  greedily,  and  then,  alas,  she  fell 
from  the  clouds.  Mrs.  Wollenhope  had  said  that  he  had 
lived  in  the  rooms  above  until  lately!  Still,  he  had  sat  here, 
and  these  were  his  belongings,  which  she  saw  strewn  here 
and  there.  The  book  laid  open  on  the  high-backed  settle 
that  flanked  one  side  of  the  hearth,  and  masked  the  door  of 
an  inner  room,  had  been  laid  there  by  his  hand.  The  cloak 
that  hung  across  the  back  of  one  of  the  heavy  Cromwell 
chairs  was  his.  The  papers  and  inkhorn,  pushed  carelessly 
aside  on  one  of  the  plain  wooden  window-seats,  had  been 
placed  there  by  him.  His  were  the  black  riding-wig,  the 
whip,  and  spurs,  and  tasselled  cane,  that  hung  on  a  hook  in 
a  corner,  and  the  wig-case  that  stood  on  a  table  against  the 
wall,  alongside  a  crumpled  cravat,  and  a  jug  and  two  mugs. 
All  these— doubtless  all  these  were  his.  Sophia,  flustered 
and  softened,  her  heart  beating  quick  with  a  delicious  emo- 
tion, half  hope,  half  fear,  sat  down  on  the  chair  by  the 
door  and  gazed  at  them. 

He  was  more  to  her  now,  while  she  sat  in  his  room  and 
looked  at  these  things,  than  he  had  ever  been;  and  though 
the  moment  was  at  hand  when  his  reception  of  her  must 
tell  her  all,  her  distrust  of  him  had  never  been  less.  If  he 
did  not  love  her  with  the  love  she  pictured,  why  had  he 
chosen  her?  He  whose  career  promised  so  much,  who  under 
the  cloak  of  frivolity  pursued  aims  so  high,  amid  perils  so 
real.    He  must  love  her!    He  must  love  her!    She  thought 


88  SOPHIA 

this  almost  aloud,  and  seeing  the  wicks  of  the  candles  grow- 
ing long,  rose  and  snuffed  them;  and  in  the  performance  of 
this  simple  act  of  ownership,  experienced  a  strange  thrill 
of  pleasure. 

After  that  she  waited  awhile  on  her  feet,  looking  about 
her  shyly,  and  listening.  Presently,  hearing  no  sound,  she 
stepped  timidly  and  on  tip-toe  to  the  side  table,  and  lifting 
the  crumpled  cravat,  smoothed  it,  then,  with  caressing 
fingers,  folded  it  neatly  and  laid  it  back.  Again  she  list- 
ened, wondering  how  long  she  had  waited.  No,  that  was 
not  a  step  on  the  stairs;  and  thereat  her  heart  began  to  sink. 
The  reaction  of  hope  deferred  began  to  be  felt.  What  if 
he  did  not  come?  What  if  she  waited,  and  nine  found  her 
still  waiting — waiting  vainly  in  this  quiet  room  where  the 
lights  twinkled  in  the  polished  panels,  and  now  and  again 
the  ash  of  the  coal  fell  softly  to  the  hearth?  It  might — it 
might  be  almost  nine  already! 

She  began  to  succumb  to  a  new  fever  of  suspense,  and 
looked  about  for  something  to  divert  her  thoughts.  Her 
eyes  fell  on  the  book  that  lay  open  on  the  seat  of  the 
settle.  Thinking,  "  He  has  read  this  to-day— his  was  the 
last  hand  that  touched  it — on  this  page  his  eyes  rested," 
Sophia  stooped  for  it,  and  holding  it  carefully  that  she 
might  keep  the  place  for  him,  reverently,  for  it  was  his,  she 
carried  it  to  the  light.  The  title  at  the  head  of  the  page 
was  The  Irish  Register.  The  name  smacked  so  little  of 
diversion,  she  thought  it  a  political  tract— for  the  book 
was  thin,  no  more  than  fifty  pages  or  so;  and  she  was 
setting  it  back  on  the  table  when  her  eye,  in  the  very  act 
of  leaving  the  page,  caught  the  glint,  as  it  were,  of  a  name. 
Beside  the  name,  on  the  margin,  were  a  few  pencilled  words 
and  figures;  but  these,  faintly  scrawled,  she  did  not  heed 
at  the  moment. 

"  Cochrane,  the  Lady  Elizabeth?  "  she  muttered,  repeat- 
ing the  name  that  had  caught  her  eye,  "How  strange! 


IN  DATIES   STREET  89 

What  can  the  book  have  to  do  with  Lady  Betty?    It  must 
be  some  kind  of  peerage.    But  she  is  not  Irish!  " 

To  settle  the  question,  she  raised  the  book  anew  to  the 
light,  and  saw  that  it  consisted  of  a  list  of  persons'  names 
arranged  in  order  of  rank.  Only — which  seemed  odd — all 
the  names  were  ladies'  names.  Above  Cochrane,  the  Lady 
Elizabeth,  appeared  Cochrane,  the  Lady  Anne;  below  came 
Coke,  the  Lady  Catherine,  and  after  each  name  the  address 
of  the  lady  followed  if  she  were  a  widow,  of  her  parents  or 
guardians  if  she  were  unmarried. 

Sophia  wondered  idly  what  it  meant,  and  with  half  her 
mind  bent  on  the  matter,  the  other  half  intent  on  the  com- 
ing of  a  footstep,  she  turned  back  to  the  title-page  of  the 
book.  She  found  that  the  fuller  description  fhere  printed 
ran  The  Irish  Register,  or  a  list  of  the  Duchess  Dowagers, 
Countesses,  Widow  Ladies,  Maiden  Ladies,  Widows,  and 
Misses  of  Great  Fortunes  in  England,  as  registered  by  the 
Dublin  Society. 

Even  then  she  was  very,  very  far  from  understanding. 
But  the  baldness  of  the  description  sent  a  chill  through  her. 
Misses  of  large  fortunes  in  England!  As  fortunes  went, 
she  was  a  miss  of  large  fortune.  Perhaps  that  was  why  the 
words  grated  upon  her;  why  her  heart  sank,  and  the  room 
seemed  to  grow  darker.  Turning  to  look  at  the  cover  of  the 
book,  she  saw  a  slip  of  paper  inserted  towards  the  end  to 
keep  a  place.  It  projected  only  an  eighth  of  an  inch,  but 
she  marked  it,  and  turned  to  it;  something  or  other — it  may 
have  been  only  the  position  of  the  paper  in  that  part  of  the 
book,  it  may  have  been  the  presence  of  the  book  in  her 
lover's  room — forewarning  her;  for  in  the  act  of  turning 
the  leaves,  and  before  she  came  to  the  marker,  she  knew 
what  she  would  find. 

And  she  found  it.  First,  her  name,  "  Maitland,  Miss 
Sophia,  at  the  Hon.  Mr.  Northey's  in  Arlington  Street ". 
Then — yes,  then,  for  that  was  not  all  or  the  worst — down 


90  SOPHIA 

the  narrow  margin,  starting  at  her  name,  ran  a  note,  written 
faintly,  in  a  hand  she  knew;  the  same  hand  that  had  penned 
her  one  love  letter,  the  hand  from  which  the  quill  had 
fallen  in  the  rapture  of  anticipation,  the  hand  of  her 
"humble,  adoring  lover,  Hector,  Count  Plomer"! 

She  knew  that  the  note  would  tell  her  all,  and  for  a 
moment  her  courage  failed  her;  she  dared  not  read  it.  Pier 
averted  eyes  sought  instead  the  cupboard  in  the  lower  wain- 
scot, which  she  had  fancied  the  hiding  place  of  the  Jacob- 
ite cipher,  the  muniment  chest  where  lay,  intrusted  to  his 
honour,  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  the  Beauforts  and 
Ormondes,  the  Wynns  and  Cottons  and  Cecils.  Was  the 
cupboard  that  indeed?  Or — what  was  it?  The  light  re- 
flected from  the  surface  of  the  panels  told  her  nothing,  and 
she  lowered  the  book  and  stood  pondering.  If  the  note 
proved  to  be  that  which  she  still  shrank  from  believing  it, 
what  had  she  done?  Or  rather,  what  had  she  not  done? 
What  warnings  had  she  not  despised,  what  knowledge  had 
she  not  slighted,  what  experience  had  she  not  overridden? 
How  madly,  how  viciously,  in  the  face  of  advice,  in  the 
face  of  remonstrance,  in  modesty's  own  despite,  had  she 
wrought  her  confusion,  had  she  flung  herself  into  the  arms 
of  this  man!    This  man  who — but  that  was  the  question! 

She  asked  herself  trembling,  was  he  what  this  book 
seemed  to  indicate,  or  was  he  what  she  had  thought  him? 
Was  he  villain,  or  hero?  Fortune-hunter,  or  her  true  lover? 
The  meanest  of  tricksters,  or  the  high-spirited,  chivalrous 
gentleman,  laughing  at  danger  and  smiling  at  death,  in 
whom  great  names  and  a  great  cause  were  content  to  place 
their  trust? 

At  last  she  nerved  herself  to  learn  the  answer  to  the 
question.  The  wicks  of  the  candles  were  burning  long; 
she  snuffed  them  anew,  and  holding  the  book  close  to  the 
light,  read  the  words  that  were  delicately  traced  beside 
her  name. 


In  davies  street  91 

"  Has  6000 guineas  charged  on  T.  M.'s  estate.  If  T.  M. 
marries  ivithout  consent  of  guardians  has  £10,000  more. 
Mrs.  N.  the  same.  T.  is  at  Cambridge,  aged  eighteen. 
To  make  all  sure,  T.  must  be  married  first — query  Oriana, 
if  she  can  be  found  ?  Or  Lucy  Slee — but  boys  like  riper 
women.  Not  clinch  with  S.  M.  until  T.  is  mated,  nor  at 
all  if  the  little  Cochrane  romp  {page  7)  can  be  brought  to 
hand.  But  I  doubt  it,  but  iS.  M.  is  an  easy  miss,  and 
swallows  all.     A  perfect  goose." 

Sophia  sat  awhile  in  a  chair  and  shivered,  her  face  white, 
her  head  burning.  The  words  were  so  clear  that,  the  initials 
notwithstanding,  it  was  not  possible  to  misinterpret  them; 
or  to  set  on  them  any  construction  save  one.  They  cut  her 
as  the  lash  of  a  whip  cuts  the  bare  flesh.  It  was  for  this — 
thing  that  she  had  laid  aside  her  maiden  pride,  had  risked 
her  good  name,  had  scorned  her  nearest,  had  thrown  away 
all  in  life  that  was  worth  keeping!  It  was  for  this  creature, 
this  thing  in  the  shape  of  man,  that  she  had  over-leapt  the 
bounds,  had  left  her  home,  had  risked  the  perils  of  the 
streets,  and  the  greater  perils  of  his  company.  For  this — 
but  she  had  not  words  adequate  to  the  loathing  of  her  soul. 
Outraged  womanhood,  wounded  pride,  contemned  affection 
— which  she  had  fancied  love — seared  her  very  soul.  She 
could  have  seen  him  killed,  she  could  have  killed  him  with 
her  own  hand — or  she  thought  she  could;  so  completely  in 
a  moment  was  her  liking  changed  to  hatred,  so  completely 
destroyed  on  the  instant  was  the  trust  she  had  placed  in 
him. 

"And  S.  M.  is  an  easy  miss,  and  swallows  all.  A  perfect 
goose!"  Those  words  cut  more  deeply  than  all  into  her 
vanity.  She  winced,  nay,  she  writhed  under  them.  Nor 
was  that  all.  They  had  a  clever,  dreadful  smartness  that 
told  her  they  were  no  mere  memorandum,  but  had  served 
in  a  letter,  and  tickled  at  once  a  man's  conceit  and  a 
woman's   ears.     Her   own    ears   burned    at   the    thought. 


92  SOPHIA 

"  S.  M.  is  an  easy  miss,  and  swallows  all.  A  perfect 
goose!  ':  Oh,  she  would  never  recover  it!  She  would  never 
regain  her  self-respect! 

The  last  embers  had  grown  grey  behind  the  bars;  the 
last  ash  had  fallen  from  the  grate  while  she  sat.  The  room 
was  silent  save  for  her  breathing,  that  now  came  in  quick 
spasms  as  she  thought  of  the  false  lover,  and  now  was  slow 
and  deep  as  she  sat  sunk  in  a  shamed  reverie.  On  a  sudden 
the  cooling  fireplace  cracked.  The  sound  roused  her.  She 
sprang  up  and  gazed  about  her  in  affright,  remembering 
that  she  had  no  longer  any  business  there,  nay,  that  in  no 
room  in  the  world  had  she  less  business. 

In  the  terror  of  the  moment  she  flew  to  the  door;  she 
must  go,  but  whither?  More  than  ever,  now  that  she  recog- 
nised her  folly,  she  shrank  from  her  sister's  scornful  eyes, 
from  Mr.  Northey's  disapproving  stare,  from  the  grins  of 
the  servants,  the  witticisms  of  her  friends.  The  part  she 
had  played,  seen  as  she  now  saw  it,  would  make  her  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  town.  It  was  the  silliest,  the  most 
romantic;  a  school-girl  would  cry  fie  on  it.  Sophia's  cheek 
burned  at  the  thought  of  facing  a  single  person  who  had 
ever  known  her;  much  more  at  the  thought  of  meeting  her 
sister  or  Mrs.  Martha,  or  the  laced  bumpkins  past  whom  she 
had  flitted  in  that  ill-omened  hour.  She  could  not  go  back 
to  Arlington  Street.    But  then — whither  could  she  go? 

Whither  indeed?  It  was  nine  o'clock;  night  had  fallen. 
At  such  an  hour  the  streets  were  unsafe  for  a  woman  with- 
out escort,  much  more  for  a  girl  of  gentility.  Drunken 
roysterers  on  their  way  from  tavern  to  tavern,  ripe  for  any 
frolic,  formed  a  peril  worse  than  footpads;  and  she  had 
neither  chair  nor  link-boys,  servants  nor  coach,  without  one 
or  other  of  which  she  had  never  passed  through  the  streets 
in  her  life.  Yet  she  could  not  stay  where  she  was;  rather 
would  she  lie  without  covering  in  the  wildest  corner  of  the 
adjacent  parks,  or  on  the  lonely  edge  of  Eosamond's  pond! 


IN   DATIES   STREET  93 

The  mere  thought  that  she  lingered  there  was  enough;  she 
shuddered  with  loathing,  grew  hot  with  rage.  And  the  im- 
pulse that  had  hastened  her  to  the  door  returning,  she 
hurried  out  and  was  half-way  down  the  stairs,  when  the 
sound  of  a  man's  voice,  uplifted  in  the  passage  below, 
brought  her  up  short  where  she  stood. 

An  instant  only  she  heard  it  clearly.  Then  the  tramp 
of  feet  along  the  passage,  masked  the  voice.  But  she  had 
heard  enough — it  was  Hawkesworth's — and  her  eyes  grew 
wide  with  terror.  She  should  die  of  shame  if  he  found  her 
there!  If  he  learned,  not  by  hearsay,  but  eye  to  eye,  that 
she  had  come  of  her  own  motion,  poor,  silly  dupe  of  his 
blandishments,  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms!  That  were 
too  much;  she  turned  to  fly. 

Her  first  thought  was  to  take  refuge  on  the  upper  floor 
until  he  had  gone  into  his  room  and  closed  the  door;  two 
bounds  carried  her  to  the  landing  she  had  left.  But  here 
she  found  an  unexpected  obstacle  in  a  wicket,  set  at  the  foot 
of  the  upper  flight  of  stairs;  one  of  those  wickets  that  are 
still  to  be  seen  in  old  houses,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
nursery.  By  the  light  that  issued  from  the  half -open  door- 
way of  the  room,  Sophia  tugged  at  it  furiously,  but  seeking 
the  latch  at  the  end  of  the  gate  where  the  hinges  were,  she 
lost  a  precious  moment.  When  she  found  the  fastening, 
the  steps  of  the  man  she  had  fancied  she  loved,  and  now 
knew  she  hated,  were  on  the  stairs.  And  the  gate  would  not 
yield!  Penned  on  the  narrow  landing,  with  discovery  tap- 
ping her  on  the  shoulder,  she  fumbled  desperately  with  the 
latch,  even,  in  despair,  flung  her  weight  against  the  wicket. 
It  held;  in  another  second,  if  she  persisted,  she  would  be 
seen. 

With  a  moan  of  anguish  she  turned  and  darted  into 
Hawkesworth's  room,  and  sprang  to  the  table  where  the 
candles  stood.  Her  thought  was  to  blow  them  out,  then 
to  take  her  chance  of  passing  the  man  before  they  were  re- 


94  SOPHIA 

lighted.  But  as  she  gained  the  table  and  stooped  to  extin- 
guish them,  she  heard  his  step  so  near  the  door  that  she 
knew  the  sudden  extinction  of  the  light  must  be  seen;  and 
her  eyes  at  the  same  moment  alighting  on  the  high-backed 
settle,  in  an  instant  she  was  behind  it. 

It  was  a  step  she  would  not  have  taken  had  she  acted  on 
anything  but  the  blind,  unthinking  impulse  to  hide  herself. 
For  here  retreat  was  cut  off;  she  was  now  between  her 
enemy  and  the  inner  room.  She  dared  not  move,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  at  most  must  be  discovered.  But  the  thing 
was  done;  there  was  no  time  to  alter  it.  As  her  hoop 
slipped  from  sight  behind  the  wooden  seat,  the  Irishman 
entered,  and  with  a  laugh  flung  his  hat  and  cane  on  the 
table.  A  second  person  appeared  to  cross  the  threshold 
after  him;  and  crouching  lower,  her  heart  beating  as  if  it 
would  choke  her,  Sophia  heard  the  door  flung  to  behind 
them. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

UNMASKED 

Theee  are  men  who  find  as  much  pleasure  in  the  intrigue 
as  in  the  fruits  of  the  intrigue;  who  take  huge  credit  for 
their  own  finesse  and  others'  folly,  and  find  a  chief  part  of 
their  good  in  watching,  as  from  a  raised  seat,  the  move- 
ments of  their  dupes,  astray  in  a  maze  of  their  planting. 
The  more  ingenious  the  machination  they  have  contrived, 
the  nicer  the  calculations  and  the  more  narrow  the  point 
on  which  success  turns,  the  sweeter  is  the  sop  to  their 
vanity.  To  receive  Lisette  and  Fifine  in  the  same  apart- 
ment within  the  hour;  to  divide  the  rebel  and  the  minister 
by  a  door;  to  turn  the  scruple  of  one  person  to  the  hurt  of 
another,  and  know  both  to  be  ignorant — these  are  feats  on 
which  they  hug  themselves  as  fondly  as  on  the  substantial 
rewards  which  crown  their  manoeuvres. 

Hawkesworth  was  of  this  class;  and  it  was  with  feelings 
such  as  these  that  he  saw  his  nicely  jointed  plans  revolv- 
ing to  the  end  he  desired.  To  mould  the  fate  of  Tom 
Maitland  at  Cambridge,  and  of  Sophia  in  town,  and  both 
to  his  own  profit,  fulfilled  his  sense  of  power.  To  time 
the  weddings  as  nearly  as  possible,  to  match  the  one  at 
noon  and  to  marry  the  other  at  night,  gratified  his  vanity 
at  the  same  time  that  it  tickled  his  humour.  But  the  more 
delicate  the  machinery,  the  smaller  is  the  atom,  and  the 
slighter  the  jar  that  suffices  to  throw  all  out  of  gear.  For  a 
time,  Oriana's  absence,  at  a  moment  when  every  instant  was 
of  price,  and  the  interference  of  Tom's  friends  was  hourly 

95 


96  SOPHIA 

possible,  threatened  to  ruin  all.  It  was  in  the  enjoyment 
of  the  relief,  which  the  news  of  her  arrival  afforded,  that 
he  returned  to  his  lodging  this  evening.  He  was  in  his  most 
rollicking  humour,  and  overflowed  with  spirits;  Tom's  in- 
nocence and  his  own  sagacity  providing  him  with  ever  fresh 
and  more  lively  cause  for  merriment. 

Nor  was  the  lad's  presence  any  check  on  his  mood. 
Hawkesworth's  joviality,  darkling  and  satirical  as  it  was, 
passed  with  Tom  for  lightness  of  heart.  What  he  did  not 
understand,  he  set  down  for  Irish,  and  dubbed  his  com- 
panion the  prince  of  good  fellows.  As  they  climbed  the 
stairs,  he  was  trying  with  after-supper  effusiveness  to  im- 
press this  on  his  host.  "  I  swear  you  are  the  best  friend 
man  ever  had,"  he  cried,  his  voice  full  of  gratitude.  "  I 
vow  you  are." 

Hawkesworth  laughed,  as  he  threw  his  hat  and  cane  on 
the  table,  and  proceeded  to  take  off  his  sword  that  he 
might  be  more  at  ease.  His  laughter  was  a  little  louder 
than  the  other's  statement  seemed  to  justify;  but  Tom  was 
in  no  critical  mood,  and  Hawkesworth's  easy  answer 
"  You'll  say  so  when  you  know  all,  my  lad,"  satisfied  the 
boy. 

"  I  do  say  it,"  he  repeated  earnestly,  as  he  threw  himself 
on  the  settle,  and,  taking  the  poker,  stirred  the  embers  to 
see  if  a  spark  survived.    "  I  do  say  it." 

"  And  I  say,  well  you  may,"  Hawkesworth  retorted,  with 
a  sneer  from  which  he  could  not  refrain.  "  What  do  you 
think,  dear  lad,  would  have  happened,  if  I'd  tried  for  the 
prize  myself?"  he  continued.  "If  I'd  struck  in  for  your 
pretty  bit  of  red  and  white  on  my  own  account?  Do  you 
remember  Trumpington,  and  our  first  meeting?  I'd  the 
start  of  you  then,  though  you  are  going  to  be  her  husband." 

"  Twenty  minutes'  start,"  Tom  answered. 

Hawkesworth  averted  his  face  to  hide  a  grin.  "  Twenty 
minutes?  "  he  said.    "Lord,  so  it  was!    Twenty  minutes!  " 


UNMASKED  97 

The  boy  reddened.    "  Why  do  you  laugh?  "  he  asked. 

"Why?  Why,  because  twenty  minutes  is  a  long  time 
— sometimes/'  Hawkesworth  answered.  "  But  there,  be 
easy,  lad,"  he  continued,  seeing  that  he  was  going  too  far, 
"  be  easy — no  need  to  be  jealous  of  me — and  I'll  brew  you 
some  punch.  There  is  one  thing  certain,"  he  continued, 
producing  a  squat  Dutch  bottle  and  some  glasses  from  a 
cupboard  by  the  door.  "You  have  me  to  thank  for  her! 
There  is  no  doubt  about  that." 

"  It's  what  I've  always  said,"  Tom  answered.  He  was 
easily  appeased.  "  If  you'd  not  asked  my  help  when  your 
chaise  broke  down  at  Trumpington — you'd  just  picked  her 
up,  you  remember? — I  should  never  have  known  her! 
Think  of  that! "  he  continued,  his  eyes  shining  with  a 
lover's  enthusiasm;  and  he  rose  and  trod  the  floor  this  way 
and  that.    "  Never  to  have  known  her,  Hawkesworth!  " 

"  Whom,  to  know  was  to  love,"  the  Irishman  murmured, 
with  thinly  veiled  irony. 

"Eight!    Eight,  indeed!" 

"  And  to  love  was  to  know — eh?  " 

"Eight!  Eight,  again!"  poor  Tom  cried,  striking  the 
table. 

For  a  moment  Hawkesworth  contemplated  him  with 
amusement.  Then — "  Well,  here's  to  her!  "  he  cried,  rais- 
ing his  glass.    "  The  finest  woman  in  the  world!  " 

"  And  the  best!    And  the  best!  "  Tom  answered. 

"  And  the  best!  The  toast  is  worthy  the  best  of  liquor," 
Hawkesworth  continued,  pushing  over  the  other's  glass; 
"  but  you'll  have  to  drink  it  cold,  for  the  fire  is  out." 

"  The  finest  woman  in  the  world,  and  the  best! "  the 
lad  cried;  his  eyes  glowed  as  he  stood  up  reverently,  his 
glass  in  his  hand.    "  She  is  that,  isn't  she,  Hawkesworth?  " 

"  She  is  all  that,  I'll  answer  for  it!  "  the  Irishman  replied, 
with  a  stifled  laugh.  Lord!  what  fools  there  were  in  the 
world!  "  By  this  time  to-morrow  she'll  be  yours!  Think  of 
7 


98  SOPHIA 

it,  lad!  "  he  continued,  with  an  ugly-sounding,  ugly-mean- 
ing laugh;  at  which  one  of  his  listeners  shuddered. 

But  Tom,  in  the  lover's  seventh  heaven,  was  not  that  one. 
His  Oriana.,  who  to  others  was  a  handsome  woman,  bold- 
eyed  and  free-tongued,  was  a  goddess  to  him.  He  saw  her 
through  that  glamour  of  first  love  that  blesses  no  man 
twice.  He  felt  no  doubt,  harboured  no  suspicion,  knew  no 
fear;  he  gave  scarce  one  thought  to  her  past.  He  was  con- 
tent to  take  for  gospel  all  she  told  him,  and  to  seek  no 
more.  That  he — he  should  have  gained  the  heart  of  this 
queen  among  women  seemed  so  wonderful,  so  amazing,  that 
nothing  else  seemed  wonderful  at  all. 

"  You  think  she'll  not  fail?"  he  .cried,  presently,  as  he 
set  down  his  glass.  "  It's  a  week  since  I  saw  her,  and — 
and  you  don't  think  she'll  have  changed  her  mind,  do 
you?" 

"  Not  she!  "  Hawkesworth  answered. 

"  She'll  come,  you  are  certain." 

"As  certain,"  Hawkesworth  cried  gaily,  "as  that  Dr. 
Keith  will  be  ready  at  the  chapel  at  twelve  to  the  minute, 
dear  lad.  And,  by  the  way,  here's  his  health!  Dr.  Keith, 
and  long  may  he  live  to  bless  the  single  and  crown  the 
virtuous!  To  give  to  him  that  hath  not,  and  from  her  that 
hath  to  take  away!  To  be  the  plague  of  all  sour  guardians, 
lockers-up  of  maidens,  and  such  as  would  cheat  Cupid;  and 
the  guardian-angel  of  all  Nugents,  Husseys,  and  bold  fel- 
lows !  Here's  to  the  pride  of  Mayf air,  the  curse  of  Chancery, 
and  the  god-father  of  many  a  pretty  couple — Dr.  Keith! " 

"Here's  to  him!"  Tom  cried,  with  ready  enthusiasm. 
And  then  more  quietly  as  he  set  down  his  glass,  "  There's 
one  thing  I'd  like,  to  be  perfectly  happy,  Hawkesworth, 
only  one.    I  wish  it  were  possible,  but  I  suppose  it  isn't." 

"What  is  it,  lad?" 

"  If  Sophia,  my  sister,  could  be  there.  They'll  be  sisters, 
you  see,  and — and,  of  course,  Sophia's  a  girl,  but  there  are 


UNMASKED  90 

only  the  two  of  us,  for  Madam  Northey  doesn't  count.  But 
I  suppose  it  is  not  possible  she  should  be  told?  " 

"Quite  impossible!''  Hawkesworth  answered  with  deci- 
sion; and  he  stooped  to  hide  a  smile.  The  humour  of  the 
situation  suited  him.  "  Quite  impossible!  Ten  to  one  she'd 
peach!  No,  no,  we  must  not  initiate  her  too  soon,  my  boy; 
though  it  is  likely  enough  she'll  have  her  own  business  with 
Dr.  Keith  one  of  these  days!  " 

The  boy  stared  at  him.  "  My  sister?  "  he  said  slowly, 
his  face  growing  red.  "With  Dr.  Keith?  "What  business 
could  she  have  with  him?  " 

"With  Dr.  Keith?"  Hawkesworth  asked  lightly. 
"  Why  not  the  same  as  yours,  dear  boy?  " 

"  The  same  as  mine?  " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure.    Why  not?    Eh,  why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Because  she's  a  Maitland!"  the  lad  an- 
swered, and  his  eyes  flashed.  "  Our  women  don't  marry 
that  way,  I'd  have  you  to  know !  Why,  I'd — I'd  rather  see 
her  buried." 

"  But  you're  going  to  marry  that  way  yourself!  "  Hawkes- 
worth reasoned.  The  boy's  innocence  surprised  him  a  little 
and  amused  him  more. 

"  I  ?  But  I'm  a  man,"  Tom  answered  with  dignity. 
"  I'm  different.  And — and  Oriana,"  he  continued,  plung- 
ing on  a  sudden  into  dreadful  confusion  and  redness  of 
face,  "  is — is  different  of  course,  because — well,  because  if 
we  are  not  married  in  this  way,  my  brother  Northey  would 
interfere,  and  we  could  not  be  married  at  all.  Oriana  is  an 
angel,  and — and  because  she  loves  me,  is  willing  to  be  mar- 
ried in  this  way.    That's  all,  you  see." 

"  I  see.  But  you  would  not  like  your  sister  to  be  married 
on  the  quiet?  " 

Tom  glared. at  him.  "No,"  he  said  curtly.  "And  for 
the  why,  it  is  my  business." 

"  To  be  sure  it  is!    Of  course  it  is.    And  yet,  Sir  Tom," 


100  SOPIIIA 

Hawkesworth  continued,  his  tone  provoking,  "  I  would  not 
mind  wagering  you  a  hundred  it  is  the  way  she  will  be  mar- 
ried, when  her  time  comes." 

"  My  sister?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Done  with  you!  "  the  lad  cried. 

"  Nay,  I  don't  mind  going  farther,"  Hawkesworth  con- 
tinued. "  I'll  wager  you  the  same  sum  that  she  does  it 
within  the  year." 

"  This  year?  " 

"  A  year  from  to-day." 

Tom  jumped  up  in  heat.  "What  the  devil  do  you 
mean?  "  he  cried.  Then  he  sat  down  again.  "  But  what 
matter!  "  he  said,  "  I'll  take  you." 

Hawkesworth  as  he  pulled  out  his  betting  book  turned 
his  head  aside  to  hide  a  smile.  "  I  note  it,"  he  said. 
" '  P.  H.  bets  Sir  Thomas  Maitland  a  hundred  that  Miss 
Sophia  Maitland  is  married  at  Dr.  Keith's  chapel;  and 
another  hundred  that  the  marriage  is  within  the  year.' ' 

"  Right!  "  Tom  said,  glowering  at  him.  His  boyish  esti- 
mate of  the  importance  of  his  family,  and  of  the  sacredness 
of  his  womankind,  sucked  the  flavour  from  the  bet;  ordi- 
narily the  young  scapegrace  loved  a  wager. 

Hawkesworth  put  up  his  book  again.  "  Good,"  he  said. 
"  You'll  see  that  that  will  be  two  hundred  in  my  pocket 
some  day." 

"Not  it!"  Tom  answered,  rudely.  "My  sister  is  not 
that  sort!  And  perhaps  the  sooner  you  know  it,  the  better," 
he  added,  aggressively. 

"  Why,  lad,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"Just  what  I  said!"  Tom  answered  shortly.  "It  was 
English.  When  my  sister  is  to  be  married,  we  shall  make  a 
marriage  for  her.  She's  not — but  the  less  said  the  better," 
he  continued,  breaking  off  with  a  frown. 

Hawkesworth  knew  that  it  would  be  prudent  to  quit  the 


h 
O 

z 
z 
< 

u 

w 

a 


UNMASKED  101 

subject,  but  his  love  of  teasing,  or  his  sense  of  the  humour 
of  the  situation,  would  not  let  him  be  silent.  "  She's  not 
for  such  as  me,  you  mean?  "  he  said,  with  a  mocking  laugh. 

"  You  can  put  it  that  way  if  you  choose!  " 

"  And  yet,  I  think — if  I  were  to  try?  " 

"  What?  " 

"  I  say,  if  I  were  to  try?  " 

Sir  Tom  scowled  across  the  table.  "Look  here!"  he 
said,  striking  it  heavily  with  his  hand,  "  I  don't  like  this 
sort  of  talk.  I  don't  suppose  you  wish  to  be  offensive;  and 
we'll  end  it,  if  you  please." 

Hawkesworth  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  by  all 
means,  if  you  feel  that  way,"  he  said.  "  Only  it  looks  a 
little  as  if  you  feared  for  your  charming  sister.  After  all, 
women  are  women.  Even  Miss  Sophia  Maitland  is  a  woman, 
and  no  exception  to  the  rule,  I  presume?  " 

"Oh,  hang  you!"  the  boy  cried,  in  a  fury;  and  again 
struck  his  hand  on  the  table.  "  Will  you  leave  my  sister's 
name  alone?  Cannot  you  understand — what  a  gentleman 
feels  about  it?  " 

"He  cannot!" 

The  words  came  from  behind  Sir  Tom,  who  forthwith 
sprang  a  yard  from  the  settle,  and  stood  gaping;  while 
Hawkesworth,  his  glass  going  to  shivers  on  the  floor, 
clutched  the  table  as  he  rose.  Both  stood  staring,  both 
stood  amazed,  and  scarce  believed  their  eyes,  when  Sophia, 
stepping  from  the  shelter  of  the  settle,  stood  before  them. 

"  He  cannot! "  she  repeated,  with  a  gesture,  a  look,  an 
accent  that  should  have  withered  the  man.  "  He  cannot! 
For  he  does  not  know  what  a  gentleman  feels  about  any- 
thing. He  does  not  know  what  a  gentleman  is.  Look  at 
him!  Look  at  him!"  she  continued,  her  face  white  with 
scorn;  and  she  fixed  the  astonished  Irishman  with  an  out- 
stretched finger  that  could  scarce  have  confounded  him 
more  had  it  been  a  loaded  pistol  set  to  his  head.    "  A  gentle- 


102  SOPHIA 

man!  "  she  went  on  passionately.  "  That  a  gentleman? 
Why,  the  air  he  breathes  pollutes  us!  To  be  in  one  room 
with  him  disgraces  us!  That  such  an  one  should  have 
tricked  us  will  shame  us  all  our  lives !  " 

Hawkesworth  tried  to  speak,  tried  to  carry  off  the  sur- 
prise; but  a  feeble  smile  was  all  he  could  compass.  Even 
Irish  wit,  even  native  impudence  were  unequal  to  this 
emergency.  The  blow  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  he 
could  not  in  a  moment  arrange  his  thoughts,  or  discern  his 
position.  He  saw  that  for  some  reason  or  other  she  had 
come  to  him  before  the  time;  but  he  could  not  on  the  in- 
stant remember  how  far  he  had  disclosed  his  hand  before 
her,  or  what  she  had  learned  from  him  while  she  lay  hidden. 

Naturally  Tom  was  the  quicker  to  recover  himself.  His 
first  thought  on  seeing  his  sister  was  that  she  had  got  wind 
of  his  plans,  and  was  here  to  prevent  his  marriage.  And  it 
was  in  this  sense  that  he  interpreted  her  opening  words. 
But  before  she  had  ceased  to  speak,  the  passion  which  she 
threw  into  her  denunciation  of  Hawkesworth,  turned  his 
thoughts  into  a  new  and  a  fiercer  channel.  With  an  oath, 
"  Never  mind  him! ':  he  cried,  and  stepping  forward 
gripped  her,  almost  brutally,  by  the  wrist.  "  I'll  talk  with 
him  afterwards.  First,  miss,  what  the  devil  are  you  doing 
here?" 

;'  Ask  him,"  she  answered;  and  again  pointed  her  finger 
at  Hawkesworth.  "  Or  no,  I  will  tell  you,  Tom.  That  man, 
the  man  who  calls  himself  your  friend,  and  called  himself 
my  lover,  has  plotted  to  ruin  us.  He  has  schemed  to  get  us 
into  his  net.  To-morrow  he  would  have  married  you  to — 
to,  I  know  not,  whom.  And  when  he  had  seen  you  married, 
and  knew  you  had  forfeited  a  fortune  to  me,  then — then  I 
should  have  been  a  fit  match  for  him!  I!  I!  And  in  the 
evening  he  would  have  married  me!  Oh,  shame,  shame  on 
us,  Tom,  that  we  should  have  let  ourselves  be  so  deluded!  " 

'He  would  have  married  you!"  Tom  cried,  dropping 
her  hand  in  sheer  astonishment. 


UNMASKED  103 

"  The  same  day!  " 

"  Hawkesworth ?  This  man  here?  He  would  have 
married  you?  " 

"  You  may  well  say,  he!  "  she  answered,  a  wave  of  crim- 
son flooding  her  cheeks  and  throat.  "  The  thought  kills 
me." 

Tom  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  "  But  I  can't  under- 
stand," he  said.    "  I  didn't  know — that  he  knew  you,  even." 

"  And  I  didn't  know  that  he  knew  you! "  she  answered 
bitterly.  "  He  is  a  villain,  and  that  was  his  plan.  We  were 
not  to  know." 

Tom  turned  to  the  Irishman;  and  the  latter's  deprecatory 
shrug  was  vain.  "  What  have  you  to  say?  "  Tom  cried  in  a 
voice  almost  terrible. 

But  Hawkesworth,  who  did  not  lack  courage,  was  him- 
self again,  easy,  alert,  plausible.  "  Much,"  he  said  coolly. 
"  Much,  dear  lad.  The  whole  thing  is  a  mistake.  I  loved 
your  sister  " — he  bowed  gravely  in  her  direction,  and  stole 
a  glance  as  he  did  so,  to  learn  how  she  took  it,  and  how  far 
he  still  had  a  chance  with  her.  "  I  loved  her,  I  say,  I  still 
love  her,  though  she  has  shown  that  she  puts  as  little  faith 
in  me,  as  she  can  ever  have  entertained  affection  for  me. 
But  I  knew  her  as  Miss  Maitland,  I  did  not  know  that  she 
was  your  sister.  Once  I  think  she  mentioned  a  brother;  but 
no  more,  no  name.  For  the  rest,  I  had  as  little  reason  to 
expect  to  find  her  here  as  you  had.    That  I  swear!  " 

The  last  words  hit  Tom  uncomfortably;  her  presence  in 
this  man's  room  was  a  fact  hard  to  swallow.  The  brother 
turned  on  the  sister.    "  Is  this  true?  "  he  hissed. 

Sophia  winced.    "  It  is  true,"  she  faltered. 

"  Then  what  brought  you  here?  "  Tom  cried,  with  brutal 
frankness. 

The  girl  shivered;  she  never  forgot  the  pain  of  that  mo- 
ment, never  forgot  the  man  who  had  caused  her  that  humil- 
iation. "Ask  him!  "  she  panted.    "  Or  no,  I  will  tell  you, 


104  SOPHIA 

Torn.  He  swore  that  he  loved  me.  He  made  me,  poor  silly 
fool  that  I  was,  believe  him.  He  said  that  if  I  would  elope 
with  him  to-morrow,  he  would  marry  me  at  Dr.  Keith's 
chapel;  and  fearing  they — my  sister — would  marry  me 
against  my  will  to — to  another  man,  I  consented.  Then — 
they  were  going  to  send  me  away  in  the  morning,  and  it 
would  have  been  too  late.  I  came  away  this  afternoon  to 
tell  him,  and — and " 

"  There  you  have  the  explanation,  Sir  Thomas," 
Hawkesworth  interposed,  with  an  air  of  candid  good 
nature.  "  And  in  all  you'll  say,  I  think,  that  there  is  noth- 
ing of  which  I  need  be  ashamed.  I  loved  your  sister,  she 
was  good  enough  to  fancy  that  she  was  not  indifferent  to 
me.  My  intentions  were  honourable,  but  her  friends  were 
opposed  to  my  suit,  I  had  her  consent  to  elope,  and  if  she 
had  not  on  a  sudden  discovered,  as  she  apparently  has  dis- 
covered, that  her  heart  is  not  mine,  we  should  have  been 
married  within  a  few  days." 

"To-morrow,  sir,  to-morrow!"  Sophia  cried.  And 
would  have  confronted  him  with  his  letter;  but  it  was  in 
the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  she  would  not  let  him  see  where 
she  kept  it, 

"  To-morrow,  certainly,  if  it  had  been  your  pleasure," 
Hawkesworth  answered  smoothly.  "  The  sole,  the  only 
point  it  concerns  me  to  show,  is,  Sir  Tom,  that  I  did  not 
know  my  Miss  Maitland  to  be  your  sister.  I  give  you  my 
word,  Sir  Tom,  I  did  not! " 

"  Liar!  "  she  cried,  unable  to  contain  herself. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  smiled.  "  There  is  but 
one  Sir  Thomas  Maitland,"  he  said,  "  but  there  are  many 
Maitlands.  Miss  Maitland  may  hold  what  opinion  she 
pleases,  and  express  what  view  of  my  character  commends 
itself  to  her,  without  fear  that  I  shall  call  her  natural 
guardians  to  account.  But  I  cannot  allow  a  gentleman  to 
doubt  my  word.  I  repeat,  Sir  Tom,  that  I  did  not  know 
that  this  lady  was  your  sister." 


UNMASKED  105 

The  boy  listened,  scowling  and  thinking.  He  had  no 
lack  of  courage,  and  was  as  ready  to  fly  at  a  man's  throat 
as  not.  But  he  was  young;  he  was  summoned,  suddenly 
and  in  conditions  most  perplexing,  to  protect  the  family 
honour;  it  was  no  wonder  that  he  hesitated.  At  this,  how- 
ever, "  Then  why  the  deuce  were  you  so  ready  to  bet/'  he 
blurted  out,  "  that  she  would  be  married  at  Keith's?  " 

Before  Hawkesworth  could  frame  the  answer,  "  That  is 
not  all!"  Sophia  cried;  and  with  a  rapid  movement  she 
snatched  from  the  table  the  book  that  had  first  opened  her 
eyes.  "  Here,  here,"  she  cried,  tapping  it  passionately.  "  In 
his  own  handwriting  is  the  plot!  The  plot  against  us  both! 
Tom,  look;  find  it!  You  will  find  it  under  my  name.  And 
then  he  cannot  deny  it." 

She  held  out  the  book  to  Tom;  he  went  to  take  it.  But 
Hawkesworth,  who  knew  the  importance  of  the  evidence, 
was  too  quick  for  them.  With  an  oath  he  sprang  forward, 
held  Tom  back  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  seized 
the  volume,  and  tried  to  get  possession  of  it.  But  Sophia 
clung  to  it,  screaming;  and  before  he  could  wrest  it  from 
her  hold,  Tom,  maddened  by  the  insult  and  her  cries,  was 
at  his  breast  like  a  wild  cat. 

The  fury  of  the  assault  took  the  Irishman  by  surprise. 
He  staggered  against  the  wall,  and  alarmed  by  the  girl's 
shrieks,  let  the  book  go.  By  that  time,  however,  Sophia 
had  had  enough  of  the  struggle.  The  sight  of  the  two 
locked  in  furious  conflict  horrified  her,  her  grasp  relaxed, 
she  let  the  book  fall;  and  as  Hawkesworth,  recovering  from 
his  surprise,  gripped  her  brother's  throat  and  by  main 
force  bent  him  backwards — the  lad  never  ceasing  to  rain 
blows  on  the  taller  man's  face  and  shoulders — she  fled  to 
the  door,  opened  it,  and  screamed  for  help. 

Fortunately  it  was  already  on  the  road.  Mr.  Wollen- 
hope,  crying,  "Lord,  what  is  it?  What  is  it?"  was  half- 
way up  the  stairs  when  she  appeared,  and  close  on  his  heels 


106  SOPHIA 

followed  his  wife,  with  a  scared  face.  Sophia  beckoned 
them  to  hasten,  and  wringing  her  hands,  flew  back.  They 
followed. 

They  found  Hawkesworth  dragging  the  boy  about,  and 
striving  savagely  to  force  him  to  the  floor.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  Wollenhope,  he  cried  with  fury,  "  Will  some  one  take 
this  mad  dog  off  me?  He  has  tried  his  best  to  murder  me. 
If  I  had  not  been  the  stronger,  he  would  have  done  it!  " 

Wollenhope,  panting  with  the  haste  he  had  made,  seized 
Tom  from  behind  and  held  him,  while  Hawkesworth  dis- 
engaged himself.  "  You'll — you'll  give  me  satisfaction  for 
this!"  the  lad  cried,  gasping,  and  almost  blubbering  with 
rage.  His  wig  was  gone,  so  was  his  cravat;  the  ruffle  of  his 
shirt  was  torn  from  top  to  bottom. 

The  other  was  busy  readjusting  his  dress,  and  staunch- 
ing the  blood  that  flowed  from  a  cut  lip.  "  Satisfaction, 
you  young  booby  ?  "  he  answered,  with  savage  contempt. 
"  Send  you  back  to  school  and  whip  you!  Turn  'em  out, 
Wollenhope!  Turn  them  both  out!  That  devil's  cub 
sprang  on  me  and  tried  to  strangle  me.  It's  lucky  for  you, 
sir,  I  don't  send  you  to  Hicks's  Hall!  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  let's  have  none  of  that!  "  Wollenhope  inter- 
posed hastily.  "  Mine's  a  respectable  house,  and  there's 
been  noise  enough  already.  A  little  more  and  I  shall  be  in- 
dicted. March,  young  sir,  if  you  please.  And  you  too, 
miss." 

Tom  swelled  with  fresh  rage.  "  Do  you  know  who  I 
am,  fellow?  "  he  cried.    "  I'd  have  you  to  know " 

"  I  don't  want  to  know!  "  Wollenhope  rejoined,  cutting 
him  short.  "I  won't  know!  It's  march — that's  all  I  know. 
And  quick,  if  you  please,"  he  continued,  trying  to  edge  the 
lad  out  of  the  room. 

"  But,  William,"  his  wife  protested,  and  timidly  touched 
his  arm,  "  it's  possible  that  they  may  not  be  in  fault.  I'm 
sure  the  young  lady  was  very  well  spoken  when  she  came." 


UX  MASKED  107 

"None  of  your  advice!  "  her  husband  retorted. 

"  But,  William " 

"  None  of  your  advice,  I  say!  Do  you  hear?  Do  you 
understand?  This  gentleman  is  our  lodger.  Who  the 
others  are,  I  don't  know,  nor  care.  And  I  don't  want  to 
know,  that's  more." 

"  You'll  smart  for  this! "  Tom  cried,  getting  in  a  word 
at  last.  He  was  almost  bursting  with  chagrin  and  indigna- 
tion.   "  I'd  have  you  know,  my  fine  fellow,  I  am  Sir " 

"  I  don't  want  to  know,"  Wollenhope  retorted,  stub- 
bornly. "  I  don't  care  who  you  are;  and  for  smarting,  per- 
haps I  may.  When  you  are  sober,  sir,  we'll  talk  about  it. 
In  the  meantime,  this  is  my  house,  and  you'll  go,  unless 
you  want  me  to  fetch  the  constable.  And  that  mayn't  be 
best  for  the  young  lady,  who  seems  a  young  lady.  I  don't 
suppose  she'll  like  to  be  taken  to  the  Round  house,  nor  run 
the  risk  of  it.  Take  my  advice,  young  sir,  take  my  advice; 
and  go  quietly  while  you  can." 

Tom,  half-choked  with  rage,  was  for  retorting,  but 
Sophia,  who  had  quite  broken  down  and  was  weeping  hys- 
terically, clutched  his  arm.  "  Oh,  come,"  she  cried  pit- 
eously,  "  please  come!  "  And  she  tried  to  draw  him  towards 
the  door. 

But  the  lad  resisted.  "  You'll  answer  to  me  for  this," 
he  said,  scowling  at  Hawkesworth,  who  remained  in  an 
attitude,  eyeing  the  two  with  a  smile  of  disdain.  "  You 
know  where  to  find  me,  and  I  shall  be  at  your  service  until 
to-morrow  at  noon." 

"  I'll  find  you  when  you  are  grown  up,"  the  Irishman 
answered,  with  a  mocking  laugh.  "  Back  to  your  books, 
boy,  and  be  whipped  for  playing  truant!  " 

The  taunt  stung  Tom  to  fresh  fury.  With  a  scream 
of  rage  he  sprang  forward,  and,  shaking  off  Wollenhope's 
grasp,  tried  to  close  with  his  enemy.  But  Sophia  hung 
on  him  bravely,  imploring  him  to  be  calm;  and  Wollen- 


108  SOPHIA 

hope  seized  him  again  and  held  him  back,  while  Mrs.  Wol- 
lenhope  supplied,  for  assistance,  a  chorus  of  shrieks.  Be- 
tween the  three  he  was  partly  led  and  partly  dragged  to  the 
door,  and  got  outside.  From  the  landing  he  hurled  a  last 
threat  at  the  smiling  Hawkesworth,  now  left  master  of  the 
field;  and  then,  with  a  little  rough  persuasion,  he  was  in- 
duced to  descend. 

In  the  passage  he  had  a  fresh  fit  of  stubbornness,  and 
wished  to  state  his  wrongs  and  who  he  was.  But  Sophia's 
heart  was  pitifully  set  on  escaping  from  the  house — to  her 
a  house  of  bitter  shame  and  humiliation — and  the  land- 
lord's desire  was  to  see  the  last  of  them;  and  in  a  moment 
the  two  were  outside.  Wollenhope  lost  not  a  moment, 
but  slammed  the  door  on  them;  they  heard  the  chain  put 
up,  and,  an  instant  later,  the  man's  retreating  footsteps  as 
he  went  back  to  his  lodger. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN   CLAKGES    ROW 

If  Tom  had  been  alone  when  he  was  thus  ejected,  it  is 
probable  that  his  first  impulse  would  have  been  either  to 
press  his  forehead  against  the  wall  and  weep  with  rage,  or 
to  break  the  offender's  windows — eighteen  being  an  age  at 
which  the  emotions  are  masters  of  the  man.  But  the  noise 
of  the  fracas  within,  though  dulled  by  the  walls,  had 
reached  the  street.  A  window  here  and  a  window  there 
stood  open,  and  curious  eyes,  peering  through  the  darkness, 
were  on  the  two  who  had  been  put  out.  Tom  was  too  angry 
to  heed  these  on  his  own  account,  or  care  who  was  witness 
of  his  violence;  but  for  Sophia's  sake,  whose  state  as  she 
clung  to  his  arm  began  to  appeal  to  his  manhood,  he  was 
willing  to  be  gone  without  more. 

After  shaking  his  fist  at  the  door,  therefore,  and  utter- 
ing a  furious  word  or  two,  he  pressed  the  weeping  girl's 
hand  to  his  side.  "  All  right,"  he  said,  "  we'll  go.  It'll  not 
be  long  before  I'm  back  again,  and  they'll  be  sorry!  A 
houseful  of  cheats  and  bullies!  There,  there,  child,  I'll 
come.  Don't  cry,"  he  continued,  patting  her  hand  with  an 
air  that,  after  the  reverse  he  had  suffered,  was  not  without 
its  grandeur.  "  I'll  take  care  of  you,  never  fear.  I've 
rooms  a  little  way  round  the  corner,  taken  to-day,  and  you 
shall  have  my  bed.  It's  too  late  to  go  to  Arlington  Street 
to-night." 

Sophia,  sobbing  and  frightened,  hung  down  her  head, 

109 


110  SOPHIA 

and  did  not  answer;  and  Tom,  forgetting  in  his  wrath 
against  Hawkesworth  the  cause  he  had  to  be  angry  with 
her,  said  nothing  to  increase  her  misery  or  aggravate  her 
sense  of  the  folly  she  had  committed.  His  lodgings  were 
in  Clarges  Row,  a  little  north  of  Shepherd's  Market,  and 
almost  within  a  stone's  throw  of  Mayfair  Chapel.  Four 
minutes'  walking  brought  the  two  to  the  house,  where  Tom 
rapped  in  a  peculiar  manner  at  the  window-shutter;  when 
this  had  been  twice  repeated,  the  door  was  opened  grudg- 
ingly by  a  pale-faced,  elderly  man,  bearing  a  lighted  candle- 
end  in  his  fingers. 

He  muttered  his  surprise  on  seeing  Tom,  but  made  way 
for  him,  grumbling  something  about  the  late  hour.  When 
he  saw  the  girl  about  to  follow,  however,  he  started,  and 
seemed  to  be  going  to  refuse  her  entrance.  But  Tom  was 
of  those  who  carry  off  by  sheer  force  of  arrogance  a  diffi- 
cult situation.  "  My  sister,  Miss  Maitland,  is  with  me,"  he 
said.  "  She'll  have  my  room  to-night.  Don't  stare,  fellow, 
but  hold  a  light  for  the  lady  to  go  up." 

The  man's  reluctance  was  evident;  but  he  let  them  enter, 
and  barred  the  door  after  them.  Then  snuffing  his  candle 
with  his  fingers,  he  held  it  up  and  surveyed  them.  "  By 
gole,"  he  said,  chuckling,  "  you  don't  look  much  like  bride 
and  bridegroom!" 

Tom  stormed  at  him,  but  he  only  continued  to  grin. 
"  You've  been  fighting!  "  he  said. 

"  Well  what's  that  to  you,  you  rogue! "  the  lad  answered 
sharply.    "  Light  the  lady  up,  do  you  hear?  " 

"To  be  sure!  To  be  sure!  But  you'll  be  wanting  a  light 
in  each  room,"  he  continued  with  a  cunning  look,  as  he 
halted  at  the  head  of  a  narrow  boarded  staircase,  up  which 
he  had  preceded  them.  "  That's  over  and  above,  you'll 
remember.  Candles  here  and  candles  there,  a  man's  soon 
ruined! " 

Tom  bade  him  keep  a  civil  tongue,  and  himself  led  the 


IN  CLARGES  ROW  111 

way  into  a  quaint  little  three-cornered  parlour,  boarded  like 
the  staircase;  beyond  it  was  a  bedroom  of  the  same  shape 
and  size.  The  rooms  had  a  small  window  apiece  looking  on 
the  Eow,  and  wore  an  air  of  snugness  that  would  have  ap- 
pealed to  Sophia  had  her  eyes  been  open  to  anything  but 
her  troubles.  Against  the  longer  wall  of  the  little  parlour 
stood  a  couple  of  tall  clocks;  a  third  eked  out  the  scanty 
furniture  of  the  bedroom,  and  others,  ticking  with  stealthy 
industry  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  whispered  that  it 
was  a  clock-maker's  shop. 

Sophia  cared  not.  She  felt  no  curiosity.  She  put  no 
questions,  but  ^accepted  in  silence  the  dispositions  her 
brother  made  for  her  comfort.  Bruised  and  broken,  fatigued 
in  body,  with  a  sorely  aching  heart  she  took  the  room 
he  gave  her,  sleep  offering  all  she  could  now  hope  for  or 
look  for,  sleep  bounding  all  her  ambitions.  In  sleep — and 
at  that  moment  the  girl  would  fain  have  lain  down  not  to 
rise  again — she  hoped  to  find  a  refuge  from  trouble,  a 
shelter  from  thought,  a  haven  where  shame  could  not  enter. 
To  one  in  suspense,  in  doubt,  in  expectation,  bed  is  a  rack, 
a  place  of  torture;  but  when  the  blow  has  fallen,  the  lot 
been  drawn,  the  dulled  sensibilities  sink  to  rest  in  it  as  nat- 
urally as  a  bird  in  the  nest — and  as  quickly  find  repose. 

She  slept  as  one  stunned,  but  weak  is  the  anodyne  of 
a  single  night.  She  awoke  in  the  morning,  cured  indeed 
of  love  by  a  radical  operation,  but  still  bleeding;  still  in 
fancy  under  the  cruel  knife,  still  writhing  in  remembered 
torture.  To  look  forward,  to  avert  her  eyes  from  the  past, 
was  her  sole  hope;  and  speedily  her  mind  grew  clear;  the 
future  began  to  take  shape.  She  would  make  use  of  Tom's 
good  offices,  and  through  him  she  would  negotiate  terms 
with  her  sister.  She  would  not,  could  not,  go  back  to 
Arlington  Street!  But  any  penance,  short  of  that,  she 
would  undergo.  If  it  pleased  them  she  would  go  to  Chalk- 
hill;  or  in  any  other  way  that  seemed  good  to  them,  she 


112  SOPHIA 

would  expiate  the  foolish,  and  worse  than  foolish  escapade 
of  which  she  had  been  guilty.  Life  henceforth  could  be  but 
a  grey  and  joyless  thing;  provided  she  escaped  the  sneers 
and  gibes  of  Arlington  Street,  she  cared  little  where  it  was 
spent. 

She  was  anxious  to  broach  the  subject  at  breakfast;  but, 
through  a  natural  reluctance  to  open  it,  she  postponed  the 
discussion  as  long  as  she  dared.  It  was  not  like  Tom  to  be 
over  careful  of  her  feelings;  but  he,  too,  appeared  to  be 
equally  unwilling  to  revert  to  past  unpleasantness.  He 
fidgeted  and  seemed  preoccupied;  he  rose  frequently  and  sat 
down  again;  more  than  once  he  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  At  last  he  rose  impulsively  and  disappeared  in 
the  bedroom. 

By-and-by  he  returned.  He  was  still  in  his  morning 
cap  and  loose  wrapper,  but  he  carried  a  shirt  over  each  arm. 
"  Which  ruffles  do  you  like  the  better,  Sophy?  "  he  asked; 
and  he  displayed  one  after  the  other  before  her  eyes.  "  Of 
course  I'd  like  to  look  my  best  to-day,"  he  added,  shame- 
facedly. 

She  stared  at  him,  in  perplexity  at  first,  not  understand- 
ing him;  then  in  horror,  as  she  discerned  on  a  sudden  what 
he  meant.  "  To-day?  "  she  faltered.  "  Why  to-day,  Tom, 
more  than  on  other  days?  " 

His  face  fell.  "  Is  't  odd,"  he  said,  "  to  want  to  look  one's 
best  to  be  married?  At  any  rate,  I  never  thought  so.  Until 
yesterday,"  he  added  with  a  glance  at  her  dress. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  narrow  window-seat;  she  stood  up, 
her  back  to  the  window.  "  To  be  married?  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Oh,  Tom!  It  is  impossible — impossible  you  intend  to  go 
on  with  it,  after  all  you  have  heard!  " 

His  face  grew  darker  and  more  sullen.  "  At  any  rate  I 
am  not  going  to  marry  Hawkesworth! "  he  sneered.  And 
then  as  she  winced  under  the  cruel  stroke  he  repented  of 
it.    "  I   only   mean,"   he   said   hurriedly,   "  that — that   I 


IN  C LARGE 8  ROW  113 

don't  see  what  he  and  his  villainy  have  to  do  with  my 
marriage." 

"  But,  oh,  Tom,  it  is  all  one!  "  Sophia  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  nervously.  "  He  was  with — with  her,  when  you  met 
her.  I  heard  you  say  so  last  night.  I  heard  you  say  that 
if  it  had  not  been  for  him  you  would  never  have  seen  her, 
or  known  her." 

"  Weil!  "  Tom  answered.  "  And  what  of  that?  If  her 
chaise  had  not  broken  down,  I  should  never  have  seen  her, 
or  known  her.  That  is  true,  too.  But  what  has  that  to  do 
with  it,  I'd  like  to  know?  " 

"He  planned  it!" 

"  He  could  not  plan  my  falling  in  love,"  Tom  answered, 
stroking  his  chin  fatuously. 

"  But  if  you  had  seen  the  book,"  Sophia  retorted,  "  the 
book  he  snatched  from  me,  you  would  have  seen  it  written 
there!  His  plan  was  to  procure  you  to  be  married  first.  You 
know  you  forfeit  ten  thousand  pounds  to  me,  Tom,  and  ten 
to  Anne,  if  you  marry  without  your  guardian's  consent?  " 

"  Hang  them  and  the  ten  thousand!  "  Tom  cried  grandly. 
"  Lord,  miss,  I've  plenty  left !  You  are  welcome  to  it,  and 
so  is  sister.  As  for  their  consent,  they'd  not  give  it  till  I 
was  Methuselah ! " 

"But  surely  you're  not  that  yet!"  she  pleaded.  "Nor 
near!    You  are  only  eighteen." 

"  Well,  and  what  are  you?  "  he  retorted.  "  And  you  were 
for  being  married  yesterday!  " 

"  I  was!  "  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands.  "  And  to  what 
a  fate!  I  am  unhappy  to-day,  unhappy,  indeed;  but  I  shall 
be  thankful  all  my  life  that  I  escaped  that!  Oh,  Tom,  for 
my  sake  take  care!  Don't  do  it!  Don't  do  it!  Wait,  at 
least,  until  " 

"  Till  I  am  Methuselah?  "  he  cried.    "  It's  likely!  " 

"No,  but  until  you  have  taken  advice!"  she  answered. 
"  Till  you  know  more  about  her.  Tom,  don't  be  angry," 
8 


114  SOPHIA 

Sophia  pleaded,  as  he  turned  away  with  an  impatient  gest- 
ure. "  Or  if  you  will  not  be  guided,  tell  me,  at  least,  who 
she  is.  I  am  your  sister,  surely  I  have  the  right  to  know 
who  is  to  be  your  wife  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  mind  your  knowing!  " 

*  I  have  only  your  interests  at  heart,"  she  cried. 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  her,  I  am  sure,"  he 
answered,  colouring.  "  Though  I  don't  know  that  she  is 
altogether  one  of  your  sort.  She  is  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  world  that  I  know!  And  so  you  will  say  when 
you  see  her!  "  he  added,  his  eyes  sparkling.  "  She  has  as 
much  wit  in  her  little  finger  as  I  have  in  my  head.  And 
you'll  find  that  out,  too.  She  don't  look  at  most  people,  but 
she  took  to  me  at  once.  It  seems  wonderful  to  me  now," 
he  continued  rapturously.  "Wonderful!  But  you  should 
see  her!  You  must  see  her!  You  can't  fancy  what  she  is 
until  you  see  her!  " 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Sophia's  tongue  to  ask,  "  But  is  she 
good?  ';  Like  a  wise  girl,  however,  she  refrained;  or  rather 
she  put  the  question  in  another  form.  "  Her  name,"  she 
said  timidly;  "  is  it  by  any  chance— Oriana?  " 

Tom  was  pacing  the  room,  his  back  to  her,  his  thoughts 
occupied  with  his  mistress's  charms.  He  whirled  about 
so  rapidly  that  the  tassels  of  his  morning  wrapper — at  that 
period  the  only  wear  of  a  gentleman  until  he  dressed  for 
the  day — flew  out  level  with  the  horizon.  "  How  did  you 
know?"  he  cried,  his  face  flushed,  his  eyes  reading  her 
suspiciously.    "  Who  told  you?  " 

"  Because  I  read  that  name  in  the  book,"  Sophia  an- 
swered, her  worst  fears  confirmed.    "  Because " 

"  Did  you  see  Oriana  only,  or  her  full  name?  " 

"What  is  her  full  name?" 

"You  don't  know?  Then  you  cannot  have  seen  it  in 
the  book!"  Tom  retorted  triumphantly.  "But  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  it.    Her  name  is  Clark." 


IN  CLARGES  ROW  115 


« 


Clark?  Oriana  Clark?"  Sophia  repeated.  And  she 
wondered, where  she  had  heard  the  name.  Why  did  it  seem 
familiar  to  her? 

"  What  does  her  name  matter?  "  Tom  answered  irritably. 
"  It  will  be  Lady  Maitland  by  night." 

"  She's  a  widow?  "  Sophia  asked.  She  did  not  know  how 
she  knew. 

Tom  scowled.    "  Well,  and  what  if  she  is?  "  he  cried. 

"What  was  her  husband,  Tom?  I  suppose  she  had  a 
husband?" 

"  Look  here,  take  care  what  you  are  saying! "  Tom  re- 
turned, with  an  ugly  look.  "  Don't  be  too  free  with  your 
tongue,  miss.  Her  husband,  if  you  must  know,  was  a — a 
Captain  Clark  of — of  Sabine's  foot,  I  think  it  was.  He  was 
a  man  of  the  first  fashion,  so  that's  all  you  know  about  it! 
But  he  treated  her  badly,  spent  all  her  money,  you  know, 
and — and  when  he  died,"  Tom  added  vaguely,  "  she  had  to 
look  out  for  herself,  you  understand." 

"But  she  must  be  years  and  years  older  than  you!" 
Sophia  answered,  opening  her  eyes.  "And  a  widow!  Oh, 
Tom,  think  of  it!  Think  of  it  again!  And  be  guided! 
Wait  at  least  until  you  know  more  about  it,"  she  pleaded 
earnestly,  "  and  have  learned  what  life  she  has  led, 
and " 

But  Tom  would  hear  no  more.  "  Wait?  "  he  cried  rudely. 
"  You're  a  nice  person  to  give  that  advice !  You  were  for 
waiting,  of  course,  and  doing  what  you  were  told.  And 
what  life  she  has  led?  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  miss;  I  kept 
my  mouth  shut  last  night,  but  I  might  have  said  a  good 
deal!  Who  got  us  into  the  trouble?  What  were  you  doing 
in  his  room  ?  The  less  you  say  and  the  quieter  you  keep, 
the  better  for  all,  I  think!  A  man's  one  thing  but  a  girl's 
another,  and  she  should  do  what  she's  bid  and  take  care 
of  herself,  and  not  run  the  risk  of  shaming  her  family!  " 

«  Oh,  Tom! " 


116  SOPHIA 

"Oh,  it's  every  word  true!"  the  lad  answered  cruelly. 
"And  less  than  you  deserve,  ma'am!  Wait  till  sister  sees 
you,  and  you'll  hear  more.  Now,  cry,  erf,  that's  like  a 
girl!"  he  continued  contemptuously.  "All  the  same  a 
little  plain  truth  will  do  you  good,  miss,  and  teach  you  not 
to  meddle.  But  I  suppose  women  will  scratch  women  as 
long  as  the  world  lasts!  " 

"  Oh,  Tom,  it  is  not  that! "  Sophia  cried  between  her 
sobs.  "  I've  behaved  badly,  if  you  please.  As  badly  as  you 
please!  But  take  me  for  a  warning.  I  thought — I  thought 
him  all  you  think  her!  " 

"  Oh,  d n! "  Tom  cried,  and  flung  away  in  a  rage, 

went  into  the  bedroom  and  slammed  the  door.  Sophia 
heard  him  turn  the  key,  and  a  minute  later,  when  she  had 
a  little  recovered  herself,  she  heard  him  moving  to  and 
fro  in  the  room.  He  was  dressing.  He  had  not,  then, 
changed  his  mind. 

She  waited  awhile,  trying  to  believe  that  her  words  might 
still  produce  some  effect.  But  he  made  no  sign,  he  did  not 
emerge.  Presently  she  caught  the  rustle  of  his  garments  as 
he  changed  his  clothes;  and  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  she  began 
to  pace  the  room.  Nature  has  provided  no  cure  for  trouble 
more  wholesome  or  more  powerful  than  a  generous  interest 
in  another's  fate.  Gone  was  the  apathy,  gone  were  the  dul- 
ness  of  soul  and  the  greyness  of  outlook  with  which  Sophia 
had  risen  from  her  bed.  Convinced  of  the  villainy  of  the 
man  who  had  nearly  snared  her,  she  foresaw  nothing  but 
ruin  in  an  alliance  between  her  brother  and  a  person  who 
was  connected,  ever  so  remotely,  with  him.  Nor  did  the 
case  rest  on  this  only;  or  on  Tom's  youth;  or  on  the  secrecy 
of  the  marriage.  Oriana  was  the  name  she  had  spelt  in  the 
book,  the  name  of  one  of  the  women  suggested  in  Hawkes- 
worth's  sordid  calculations.  No  wonder  Sophia  shrank 
from  thinking  what  manner  of  woman  she  was,  or  what  her 
qualifications  for  a  part  in  the  play.  It  was  enough  that 
she  knew  Hawkesworth,  and  was  known  by  him. 


IN  CLARGES  ROW  117 

The  cruel  lesson  which  she  had  learned  in  her  own  per- 
son, the  glimpse  she  had  had  of  the  abyss  into  which  her 
levity  had  all  but  cast  her,  even  the  gratitude  in  which  she 
held  the  brother  who  had  protected  her,  rendered  her  feel- 
ings trebly  poignant  now;  her  view  of  the  case  trebly  serious. 
To  see  the  one  relation  she  loved  falling  into  the  pit  which 
she  had  escaped,  and  to  be  unable  to  save  him;  to  know  him 
committed  to  this  fatal  step,  and  to  foresee  that  his  whole 
life  would  be  blasted  by  it,  these  prospects  awoke  no  less 
pity  in  her  breast,  because  her  eyes  were  open  to-day  to  her 
madness  of  yesterday.  Something,  something  must  be  done 
for  him;  something,  but  what? 

Often  through  the  gloom  of  reflections,  alien  from  them, 
shoot  strange  flashes  of  memory.  "  Oriana?  Oriana 
Clark?  "  Sophia  muttered,  and  she  stood  still,  remembered. 
Oriana  Clark!  Surely  that  was  the  name  of  the  woman  in 
whose  stead  she  had  been  arrested,  the  woman  whose  name 
the  bailiff  had  read  from  the  writ  in  Lane's  shop.  Sophia 
had  only  heard  the  name  once,  and  the  press  of  after  events 
and  crowding  emotions  had  driven  it  for  the  time  into  a 
side  cell  of  the  brain,  whence  it  now  as  suddenly  emerged. 
Her  eyes  sparkled  with  hope.  Here,  at  last,  was  a  fact, 
here  was  something  on  which  she  could  go.  She  stepped 
to  Tom's  door,  and  rapped  sharply  on  it. 
"  Well?  "  he  called  sourly.  "  What  is  it?  " 
"Please,  come  out!"  she  cried  eagerly.  "I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you.    I  have,  indeed!  " 

"  Can't  come  now,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  in  a  hurry." 
It  seemed  he  was;  or  he  wished  to  avoid  further  discus- 
sion, for  when  he  appeared  a  few  minutes  later — long  min- 
utes to  Sophia,  waiting  and  listening  in  the  outer  room — 
he  snatched  up  his  hat  and  malacca  and  made  for  the  door. 
"  I  can't  stop  now,"  he  cried,  and  he  waived  her  off  as  he 
raised  the  latch.  "  I  shall  be  back  in  an  hour — in  an  hour, 
and  if  you  like  to  behave  yourself,  you — you  may  be  at  it. 


118  SOPHIA 

Though  you  re  not  very  fine,  I'm  bound  to  say! "  he  con- 
cluded with  a  grudging  glance.  Doubtless  he  was  compar- 
ing her  draggled  sacque  and  unpowdered  hair  with  the  an- 
ticipated splendours  of  his  bride.  He  was  so  fine  himself, 
he  seemed  to  fill  the  little  room  with  light. 

"  Oh,  but,  Tom,  one  minute! "  she  cried,  following  him 
and  seizing  his  arm.  "  Have  a  little  patience,  I  only  want 
to  tell  you  one  thing." 

"  Well,  be  quick  about  it,"  he  answered,  ungraciously,  his 
hand  still  on  the  latch.  "  And  whatever  you  do,  miss,  keep 
your  tongue  off  her,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you.  I'll  not 
have  my  wife  miscalled,"  he  continued,  looking  grand,  and 
a  trifle  sulky,  "  as  you'll  have  to  learn,  my  lady." 

"  But  she  is  not  your  wife  yet,"  Sophia  protested  earn- 
estly. "  And,  Tom,  she  only  wants  you  to  pay  her  debts. 
She  only  wants  a  husband  to  pay  her  debts.  She  was 
arrested  yesterday." 

" Arrested!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  Sophia  answered;  and  then,  beginning  to 
flounder,  "  at  least,  I  mean,"  she  stammered,  "  I  was 
arrested — in  her  place.  That  is  to  say,  on  a  writ  against 
her." 

"  You  were  arrested  on  a  writ  against  her! "  Tom  cried 
again.  "  On  a  writ  against  Oriana?  You  must  be  mad! 
Mad,  girl!  Why,  you've  never  seen  her  in  your  life.  You 
did  not  know  her  name!  "  He  had  not  heard,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, a  word  of  her  adventures  on  the  way  to  Davies 
Street,  and  the  statement  she  had  just  made  seemed  to  him 
the  wanton  falsehood  of  a  foolish  girl  bent  on  mischief. 
"  Oh,  this  is  too  bad! "  he  continued,  shaking  her  off  in  a 
rage.  "How  dare  you,  you  little  vixen?  You  cowardly 
little  liar!  "  he  added,  pale  with  anger.  And  he  raised  his 
hand  as  if  he  would  strike  her. 

She  recoiled.    "  Don't  hurt  me,  Tom,"  she  cried. 
,  "  I'll  not!  but — but  you  deserve  it,  you  little  snake!  "  he 


IN  CLARGE8  ROW  119 

retorted.  "  You  are  bad!  You  are  bad  right  through! "  he 
continued  from  a  height  of  righteous  indignation.  "  What 
you  did  yesterday  was  nothing  in  comparison  to  this!  You 
let  me  hear  another  word  against  her,  make  up  another  of 
your  lies,  and  you  are  no  sister  of  mine!  That's  all!  So 
now  you  know,  and  if  you  are  wise  you  will  not  try  it 
again!  " 

As  he  uttered  the  last  word  Tom  jerked  up  the  latch, 
and  strode  out;  but  only  to  come  into  violent  collision,  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  with  his  landlord;  who  appeared  to 
be  getting  up  from  his  knees.  "  Hang  you,  Grocott,  what 
the  deuce  are  you  doing  here?  "  the  lad  cried,  backing  from 
him  in  a  rage. 

"  Cleaning  the  stairs,  your  honour,"  the  man  pleaded. 

"  You  rascal,  I  believe  you  were  listening! "  Tom  re- 
torted. "  Is  the  room  below  stairs  ready?  We  go  at  noon, 
mark  me,  and  shall  be  back  to  dine  at  one." 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,  all  will  be  ready.  Does  the  lady  come 
here  first?  " 

"  Yes.  Have  the  cold  meats  come  from  the  White 
Horse?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  the  Burgundy  from  Pontack's?  " 

"  Yes,  your  honour." 

Tom  nodded  his  satisfaction,  and,  his  temper  a  little  im- 
proved, stalked  down  the  stairs.  Sophia,  who  had  heard 
every  word,  ran  to  the  window  and  saw  him  cross  Clarges 
Eow  in  the  direction  of  Shepherd's  Market.  Probably  he 
was  gone  to  assure  himself  that  the  clergyman  was  at  home, 
and  ready  to  perform  the  ceremony. 

The  girl  watched  him  out  of  sight;  then  she  dried  her 
tears.  "  I  mustn't  cry!  "  she  murmured.  "  I  must  do  some- 
thing!   I  must  do  something!  " 

But  there  was  only  one  thing  she  could  do,  and  that 
was  a  thing  that  would  cost  her  dear.    Only  by  returning 


120  SOPHIA 

to  Arlington  Street,  at  once,  that  moment,  and  giving  in- 
formation, could  she  prevent  the  marriage.  Mr.  Northey  was 
Tom's  guardian;  he  had  the  power,  and  though  he  had 
shirked  his  duty  while  the  thing  was  in  nubibus,  he  would 
not  dare  to  stand  by  when  time  and  place,  the  house  and 
the  hour  were  pointed  out  to  him.  In  less  than  ten  minutes 
she  could  be  with  him;  in  half  as  many  the  facts  could  be 
made  known.  Long  before  the  hour  elapsed  Mr.  ISTorthey 
might  be  in  Clarges  Kow,  or,  if  he  preferred  it,  at  Dr. 
Keith's  chapel,  ready  to  forbid  the  marriage. 

The  thing  was  possible,  nay  it  was  easy;  and  it  would 
withhold.  Tom  from  a  step  which  he  must  repent  all  his 
life.  But  it  entailed  the  one  penance  from  which  she  was 
anxious  to  be  saved,  the  one  penalty  from  which  her 
wounded  pride  shrank,  as  the  bleeding  stump  shrinks  from 
the  cautery.  To  execute  it  she  must  return  to  Arlington 
Street;  she  must  return  into  her  sister's  power,  to  the  dom- 
ination of  Mrs.  Martha,  and  the  daily  endurance,  not  only 
of  many  an  ignoble  slight,  but  of  coarse  jests  and  gibes  and 
worse  insinuations.  An  hour  earlier  she  had  conceived  the 
hope  of  escaping  this,  either  through  Tom's  mediation,  or 
by  a  voluntary  retreat  to  Chalkhill.  Now  she  had  to  choose 
this  or  his  ruin. 

She  did  not  hesitate.  Even  in  her  folly  of  the  previous 
day,  even  in  her  reckless  self-abandonment  to  a  silly  pas- 
sion, Sophia  had  not  lacked  the  qualities  that  make  for 
sacrifice — courage,  generosity,  staunchness.  Here  was  room 
for  their  display  in  a  better  cause,  and  without  a  moment's 
delay,  undeterred  by  the  reflection  that  far  from  earning 
Tom's  gratitude,  she  would  alienate  her  only  friend,  she 
hurried  into  the  bedroom  and  donned  Lady  Betty's  laced 
jacket  and  Tuscan.  With  a  moan  on  her  own  account,  a 
pitiful  smile  on  his,  she  put  them  on;  and  then  paused,  re- 
membering with  horror  that  she  must  pass  through  the 
streets  in  that  guise.    It  had  done  well  enough  at  night, 


IN  CLARGE8  ROW  121 

but  in  the  day  the  misfit  was  frightful.  Not  even  for  Tom 
could  she  walk  through  Berkeley  Square  and  Portugal 
Street,  the  figure  it  made  her.    She  must  have  a  chair. 

She  opened  the  door  and  was  overjoyed  to  find  that  the 
landlord  was  still  on  the  stairs.  "  Will  you  please  to  get  me 
a  chair/'  she  said  eagerly.  "  At  once,  without  the  loss  of 
a  minute." 

The  man  looked  at  her  stupidly,  his  heavy  lower  lip 
dropped  and  flaccid;  his  fat,  whitish  face  evinced  a  sort  of 
consternation.  "  A  chair?  "  he  repeated  slowly.  "  Cer- 
tainly. But  if  your  ladyship  is  going  any  distance,  would 
not  a  coach  be  better?  " 

"  No,  I  am  only  going  as  far  as  Arlington  Street,"  Sophia 
answered,  off  her  guard  for  the  moment.  "  Still,  a  coach 
will  do  if  you  cannot  get  a  chair.  I  have  not  a  moment  to 
lose." 

"  To  be  sure,  ma'am,  to  be  sure,"  he  answered,  staring 
at  her  heavily.    "  A  chair  you'll  have  then?  " 

"  Yes,  and  at  once!    At  once,  you  understand." 

"  If  you  are  in  a  hurry,  maybe  there  is  one  below,"  he 
said,  making  as  if  he  would  enter  the  room  and  look  from 
the  windows.    "  Sometimes  there  is." 

"  If  there  were,"  she  retorted,  irritated  by  his  slowness, 
"  I  should  not  have  asked  you  to  get  one.  I  suppose  you 
know  what  a  chair  is?  "  she  continued.  For  the  man  stood 
looking  at  her  so  dully  and  strangely  that  she  began  to 
think  he  was  a  natural. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  his  eyes  twinkling  with  sudden 
intelligence,  as  if  at  the  notion.  "  I  know  a  chair,  and  I'd 
have  had  one  for  you  by  now.  But,  by  gole,  I've  no  one  to 
leave  with  the  child,  in  case  it  awakes." 

"The  child?"  Sophia  cried,  quite  startled.  The  pres- 
ence of  a  child  in  a  house  is  no  secret  as  a  rule. 

"  'Tis  here,"  he  said,  indicating  a  door  that  stood  ajar  at 
his  elbow.  "  On  the  bed  in  the  inner  room,  ma'am.  I'm 
doing  the  stairs  to  be  near  it." 


122  SOPHIA 

"  Is  it  a  baby?  "  Sophia  cried. 

"To  be  sure.    What  else?  " 

"  I'll  stay  with  it,  then,"  she  said.  "  May  I  look  at  it? 
And  will  you  get  the  chair  for  me,  while  I  watch  it?  " 

"To  be  sure,  ma'am!  'Tis  here,"  he  continued,  as  he 
pushed  the  door  open,  and  led  the  way  through  a  tiny  room; 
the  outer  of  two  that,  looking  to  the  back,  corresponded 
with  Tom's  apartments  at  the  front.  He  pushed  open  the 
door  of  the  inner  room,  the  floor  of  which  was  a  step  higher. 
"  If  you'll  see  to  it  while  I  am  away,  ma'am,  and  not  be  out 
of  hearing?  " 

"  I  will,"  Sophia  said  softly.    "  Is  it  yours?  " 

"  No,  my  daughter's." 

Sophia  tip-toed  across  the  floor  to  the  bed  side.  The 
room  was  poorly  lighted  by  a  window,  which  was  partially 
blocked  by  a  water-cistern;  the  bed  stood  in  the  dark  corner 
beside  the  window;  Sophia,  turning  up  her  nose  at  the  close 
air  of  the  room,  hesitated  for  an  instant  to  touch  the  dirty, 
tumbled  bed-clothes.  She  could  not  see  the  child.  "  Where 
is  it?  "  she  asked,  stooping  to  look  more  closely. 

The  answer  was  the  dull  jar  of  the  door  as  it  closed  be- 
hind her;  a  sound  that  was  followed  by  the  click  of  a  bolt 
driven  home  in  the  socket.  She  turned  swiftly,  her  heart 
standing  still,  her  brain  already  apprised  of  treachery.  The 
man  was  gone. 

Sophia  made  but  one  bound  to  the  threshold,  lifted  the 
latch,  and  threw  her  weight  against  the  door.  It  was  fast- 
ened. 

"  Open! "  she  cried,  enraged  at  the  trick  which  had  been 
played  her.  "  Do  you  hear  me?  Open  the  door  this  min- 
ute! "  she  repeated,  striking  it  furiously  with  her  hands. 
"  What  do  you  mean?    How  dare  you  shut  me  in?  " 

This  time  the  only  response  was  the  low  chuckling  laugh 
of  the  clock-maker  as  he  turned  away.  She  heard  the 
stealthy  fall  of  his  footsteps  as  he  went  through  the  outer 


IN  C LARGE S  ROW  123 

room;  then  the  grating  of  the  key,  as  he  locked  the  farther 
door  behind  him.    Then — silence. 

"  Tom!  "  Sophia  shrieked,  kicking  the  door,  and  pound- 
ing it  with  her  little  fists.  "  Tom,  help!  help,  Tom!  "  And 
then,  as  she  realised  how  she  had  been  trapped,  "  Oh,  poor 
Tom!  "  she  sobbed.    "  Poor  Tom!    I  can  do  nothing  now! '; 

While  Grocott,  listening  on  the  stairs,  chuckled  grimly. 
"  You  thought  you  were  going  to  stop  my  girl's  marriage, 
did  you?  "  he  muttered,  shaking  his  fist  in  the  direction 
of  the  sounds.  "  You  thought  you'd  stop  her  being  my 
lady,  did  you?  Stop  her  now  if  you  can,  my  little  madam. 
I  have  you  like  a  mouse  in  a  trap;  and  when  you  are  cooler, 
my  Lady  Maitland  shall  let  you  out.  My  lady,  ha!  ha! 
What  a  sound  it  has.    My  Lady  Maitland!  " 

Then  reflecting  that  Hawkesworth,  whom  he  hated,  and 
had  cause  to  hate,  had  placed  this  triumph  in  his  grasp — 
and  would  now,  as  things  had  turned  out,  get  nothing  by  it 
— he  shook  with  savage  laughter.  "Lady  Maitland!"  he 
chuckled.  "Ho!  ho!  And  he  gets — the  shells!  The  shells, 
ho!  ho!" 


CHAPTEK  X 

SIE   HEEYET    TAKES    THE    FIELD 

In  his  rooms  at  the  corner  house  between  Portugal  Street 
and  Bolton  Street,  so  placed  that  by  glancing  a  trifle  on  one 
side  of  the  oval  mirror  before  him  he  could  see  the  Queen's 
Walk  and  the  sloping  pastures  of  the  Green  Park,  Sir 
Hervey  Coke  was  being  shaved.  A  pile  of  loose  gold 
which  lay  on  the  dressing-table  indicated  that  the  even- 
ing at  White's  had  not  been  unpropitious.  An  empty 
chocolate  cup  and  half-eaten  roll  stood  beside  the  money, 
and,  with  Sir  Hervey's  turban-cap  and  embroidered  gown, 
indicated  that  the  baronet,  who  in  the  country  broke  his 
fast  on  beef  and  small  beer,  and  began  the  day  booted, 
followed,  in  town,  town  fashions.  To-day,  however,  early 
as  it  was — barely  ten — his  wig  hung  freshly  curled  on  the 
stand,  and  a  snuff-coloured  coat  and  long-flapped  waist- 
coat, plainly  laced,  were  airing  at  the  fire;  signs  that  he 
intended  to  be  abroad  betimes,  and  on  business. 

Perhaps  the  business  had  to  do  with  an  open  letter  in 
his  lap,  at  which  the  man  who  was  shaving  him  cocked 
his  eye  inquisitively  between  strokes.  Or  perhaps  not,  for 
Sir  Hervey  did  not  seem  to  heed  this  curiosity;  but  the 
valet  had  before  had  reason — and  was  presently  to  have 
fresh  reason — to  know  that  his  taciturn  master  saw  more 
than  he  had  the  air  of  seeing. 

Suddenly  Sir  Hervey  raised  his  hand.  Watkyns,  the 
valet,  stood  back.    "  Bring  it  me!  "  Coke  said. 

The  man  had  heard  without  hearing,  as  he  now  under- 
stood without  explanation.  He  went  softly  to  the  door, 
received  a  note,  and  brought  it  to  his  master. 

124 


SIR  HERYEY  TAKES  THE  FIELD  125 

"An  answer?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Then  finish." 

The  valet  did  so.  When  he  had  removed  the  napkin, 
Sir  Hervey  broke  the  seal,  and,  after  reading  three  or  four 
lines  of  the  letter,  raised  his  eyes  to  the  mirror.  He  met  the 
servant's  prying  gaze,  and  abruptly  crumpled  the  paper  in 
his  hand.    Then,  "  Watkyns,"  he  said,  in  his  quietest  tone. 

"Sir?" 

"  About  the  two  guineas  you — stole  this  morning.  For 
this  time  you  may  keep  them;  but  in  the  future  kindly 
remember  two  things." 

The  razor  the  man  was  cleaning  fell  to  the  floor.  His 
face  was  a  sickly  white;  his  knees  shook  under  him.  He 
tried  to  frame  words,  to  deny,  to  say  something,  but  in  vain. 
He  was  speechless. 

"  Firstly,"  Coke  continued  blandly,  "  that  I  count  the 
money  I  bring  home — at  irregular  intervals.  Secondly, 
that  two  guineas  is  a  larger  sum  than  forty  shillings.  An- 
other time,  Watkyns,  I  would  take  less  than  forty  shillings. 
You  will  understand  why.    That  is  all." 

The  man,  still  pale  and  trembling,  found  his  tongue. 
"  Oh,  sir! "  he  cried,  "  I  swear,  if  you'll — if  you'll  forgive 
me " 

Coke  stopped  him.  "  That  is  all,"  he  said,  "  that  is  all. 
The  matter  is  at  an  end.  Pick  that  up,  go  downstairs,  and 
return  in  five  minutes." 

When  the  man  was  gone,  Sir  Hervey  smoothed  the 
paper,  and,  with  a  face  that  grew  darker  and  darker  as 
he  proceeded,  read  the  contents  of  the  letter  from  begin- 
ning to  end.    They  were  these: — 

"Dear  Sie, 

"  The  honour  you  intended  my  family  by  an 
alliance  with  a  person  so  nearly  related  to  us  as  Miss  Mait- 


126  SOPHIA 

land  renders  it  incumbent  on  me  to  inform  you  with  the 
least  possible  delay  of  the  unfortunate  event  which  has  hap- 
pened in  our  household,  an  event  which,  I  need  not  say,  I 
regret  on  no  account  more  than  because  it  must  deprive  us 
of  the  advantage  we  rightly  looked  to  derive  from  that  con- 
nection. At  a  late  hour  last  evening  the  misguided  (and  I 
fear  I  must  call  her  the  unfortunate)  girl,  whom  you  dis- 
tinguished by  so  particular  a  mark  of  your  esteem,  left  the 
shelter  of  her  home,  it  is  now  certain,  to  seek  the  protection 
of  a  lover. 

"  While  the  least  doubt  on  this  point  remained,  I  be- 
lieved myself  justified  in  keeping  the  matter  even  from  you, 
but  I  have  this  morning  learned  from  a  sure  source — Lane, 
the  mercer,  in  Piccadilly — that  she  was  set  down  about  nine 
o'clock  last  night  at  a  house  in  Davies  Street,  kept  by  a 
man  of  the  name  of  Wollenhope,  and  the  residence — alas, 
that  I  should  have  to  say  it! — of  the  infamous  Irishman 
whose  attentions  to  her  at  one  time  attracted  your  notice. 

"  You  will  readily  understand  that  from  the  moment  we 
were  certified  of  this  we  ceased  to  regard  her  as  a  part  of 
our  family;  a  choice  so  ill-regulated  can  proceed  only  from 
a  mind  naturally  inclined  to  vice.  Resentment  on  your 
account  no  less  than  a  proper  care  of  our  household,  dic- 
tates this  course,  nor  will  any  repentance  on  her  part,  nor 
any  of  those  misfortunes  to  which  as  I  apprehend  her  mis- 
conduct will  surely  expose  her,  prevail  on  us  to  depart  from 
it. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  sir,  if,  under  the  crushing  weight  of 
this  deplorable  matter,  I  confine  myself  to  the  bare  fact 
and  its  consequence,  adding  only  the  expression  of  our 
profound  regret  and  consideration. 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  remain, 
"  Dear  sir, 
"  Your  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

"  J.  NORTHEY." 


SIR  HERTEY  TAKES  THE  FIELD  127 

"  A  d d  cold-blooded  fish !  "  Sir  Hervey  muttered 

when  he  had  finished,  and  he  cast  the  letter  on  the  table 
with  a  gesture  of  disgust.  Then  he  sat  motionless  for  sev- 
eral minutes,  gazing  at  nothing,  with  a  strange  expression 
of  pain  in  his  eyes.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  the  old 
mansion  in  Sussex,  standing  silent  and  lonely  in  its  wide- 
spread park,  awaiting — still  awaiting,  a  mistress.  Perhaps 
of  plans  late  made,  soon  wrecked,  yet  no  less  cherished. 
Perhaps  of  a  pale  young  face  wide-browed  and  wilful,  with 
eyes  more  swift  to  blame  than  praise;  eyes  which  he  had 
seen  seeking — seeking  pathetically  they  knew  not  what. 
Or  perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  the  notorious  Lady  Vane — 
of  what  she  had  been  once,  of  what  Sophia  might  be  some 
day.  For  he  swore  softly,  and  the  look  of  pain  deepened  in 
his  eyes.    And  then  Watkyns  returned. 

Sir  Hervey  stood  up.  "  You'll  go  to  Wollenhope's,"  he 
said  without  preface.  "  Wollenhope's,  in  Davies  Street, 
and  learn — you'll  know  how — whether  the  young  lady  who 
alighted  there  last  night  from  a  chair  or  coach  is  still  there. 
And  whether  a  person  of  the  name  of  Hawkesworth  is  there. 
And  whether  he  is  at  home.  You  will  not  tell  my  name. 
You  understand?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You've  half  an  hour." 

The  man  slid  out  of  the  room,  his  face  wearing  a  look 
of  relief,  almost  of  elation.  It  was  true  then.  He  was 
forgiven ! 

After  that  Coke  walked  up  and  down,  his  watch  in  his 
hand,  until  the  valet  returned.  In  the  interval  he  spoke 
once  only.  "She  is  but  a  child!"  he  muttered,  "she's 
but  a  child!  "  and  he  followed  it  with  a  second  oath.  When 
his  man  returned,  "  Well?  "  he  said,  without  looking  round. 

"  The  young  lady  is  not  there,  sir,"  Watkyns  replied. 
"  She  arrived  at  eight  last  evening  in  a  chair,  and  left  a 
little  after  nine  with  a  young  gentleman." 


128  SOPHIA 

"  The  person  Hawkesworth  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"No?"  Sir  Hervey  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  looked 
at  him. 

"  No,  sir.  Who1  it  was  the  landlord  of  the  house  did  not 
know  or  would  not  tell  me.  He  was  not  in  the  best  of 
tempers,  and  I  could  get  no  more  from  him.  He  told  me 
that  the  young  gentleman  came  in  with  his  lodger  about  a 
quarter  to  nine." 

"With  Hawkesworth?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  found  the  young  lady  waiting  for  them. 
That  the  two  gentlemen  quarrelled  almost  immediately, 
and  that  the  young  lady  went  off  with  the  young  gentle- 
man. Who  was  very  young,  sir,  not  much  more  than  a 
boy." 

"What  address?" 

"  I  could  not  learn,  sir." 

"Watkyns!" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  may  take  two  guineas." 

The  man  hesitated,  his  face  scarlet.  "  If  you  please,  sir," 
he  muttered,  "  I'll  consider  I  have  them." 

"  Very  good.    I  understand  you.    Now  dress  me." 

It  took  about  five  minutes,  as  London  then  lay,  to  walk 
from  Bolton  Street  to  Davies  Street,  by  way  of  Bolton  Eow 
and  Berkeley  Square.  At  that  hour,  it  was  too  early  for  fine 
gentlemen  of  Sir  Hervey's  stamp  to  be  abroad,  and  fine 
ladies  were  still  abed,  so  that  he  fell  in  with  no  acquaint- 
ances. He  had  ascertained  from  Watkyns  in  what  part  of 
the  street  Wollenhope's  house  was  situate,  and,  well  within 
the  prescribed  space  of  time,  he  found  himself  knocking  at 
the  door.  It  was  opened  pretty  promptly  by  Mrs.  Wollen- 
hope. 

"  Does  Mr.  Hawkesworth  lodge  here?  "  Sir  Hervey  asked, 
without  preamble. 


SIR  HERVEY  TAKES   THE  FIELD  129 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  does,"  the  good  woman  answered,  curtsey- 
ing low  at  the  sight  of  his  feathered  hat  and  laced  waist- 
coat; and  instinctively  she  looked  up  and  down  the  street 
in  search  of  his  chair  or  coach.  "  But  he  is  out  at  present," 
she  continued,  her  eyes  returning  to  him.  "  He  left  the 
house  about  half  an  hour  ago,  your  honour." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  he  may  be  found?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  no  notion,"  Mrs.  Wollenhope  answered, 
wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

"  Still,"  Sir  Hervey  rejoined,  "  you  can,  perhaps,  tell 
me  the  name  of  the  young  gentleman  who  was  here  last 
evening  and  took  a  lady  away." 

Mrs.  Wollenhope  raised  her  hands.  "There!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  I  said  we  should  hear  of  it  again!  Not  that  we 
are  to  blame,  no,  sir,  no!  Except  in  the  way  of  saving 
bloodshed!  And  as  for  the  name,  I  don't  know  it.  But 
the  address  now,"  dropping  her  voice  and -looking  ner- 
vously behind  her,  "  the  young  gentleman  did  give  an  ad- 
dress, and "  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner.    "  Are 

these  with  you,  sir?  " 

Coke,  following  the  direction  of  her  gaze,  turned  about, 
and  found  two  rough-looking  men  standing  at  his  elbow. 
"  No,"  he  said,  "  they  are  not.  What  do  you  want,  my 
men?" 

"  Lord,  your  honour,  no  hurry,  we  can  wait  till  you've 
done,"  the  foremost  answered,  tugging  obsequiously  at  the 
uncocked  flap  of  his  hat;  while  his  companion  sucked  his 
stick  and  stared.  "  Or  after  all,  what's  the  odds?  Time's 
money,  and  there's  many  go  in  front  of  us  would  rather 
see  our  backs!  Is  the  lady  that  came  last  night  in  the  house, 
mistress?  " 

Sir  Hervey  stared,  while  Mrs.  Wollenhope  eyed  the 
speaker  with  great  disfavour.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  if  that's 
what  you  want,  she  is  not!  " 

The  man  slowly  expectorated  on  the  ground.     "  Oh," 
9 


130  SOPHIA 

he  said,  "that  being  the  case,  when  did  she  leave?  No 
harm  in  telling  that,  mistress!  " 

"  She  left  within  the  hour,"  Mrs.  Wollenhope  snapped. 
"  And  that's  all  I'll  tell  you  about  her,  so  there!  And  take 
yourself  off,  please!  " 

"  If  the  matter  of  half  a  crown,  now ?  " 

Mrs.  Wollenhope  shook  her  head  vigorously.  "No!" 
she  cried.  "  No!  I  don't  sell  my  lodgers.  I  know  your 
trade,  my  man,  and  you'll  get  nothing  from  me." 

The  bailiff  grinned  and  nodded.  "  All  right,"  he  said. 
"  No  need  to  grow  warm!  Easy  does  it.  She  gave  us  the 
slip  yesterday,  but  we're  bound  to  nab  her  by-and-by.  We 
knew  she  was  coming  here,  and  if  we'd  waited  here  yes- 
terday instead  of  at  the  coach  office,  we'd  have  took  her. 
Come,  Trigg,  we'll  to  the  Blue  Posts;  if  she's  had  a  coach 
or  a  chair  we'll  hear  of  it  there! ';  And  with  a  "  No  offence, 
your  honour!  "  and  a  clumsy  salute,  the  two  catchpolls 
lounged  away,  the  one  a  pace  behind  the  other,  his  knobby 
stick  still  in  his  mouth,  and  his  sharp  eyes  everywhere. 

Coke  watched  them  go,  and  a  more  talkative  man  would 
have  expressed  his  astonishment.  He  fancied  that  he  knew 
all  that  was  to  be  known  of  Sophia's  mode  of  life.  She 
might  have  spent  a  little  more  than  her  allowance  at  Mar- 
gam's  or  Lane's,  might  have  been  tempted  by  lace  at 
Doiley's,  or  ribbons  at  the  New  Exchange.  But  a  writ  and 
bailiffs?  The  thing  was  absurd,  and  for  a  good  reason.  Mr. 
Northey  was  rich,  yet  not  so  rich  as  he  was  penurious;  the 
tradesman  did  not  exist,  who  would  not  trust,  to  the  extent 
of  his  purse,  any  member  of  that  family.  Coke  was  certain 
of  this;  and  that  there  was  something  here  which  he  did  not 
understand.  But  all  he  said  was  "  They  are  bailiffs,  are 
they?" 

"  For  sure,  sir,"  Mrs.  Wollenhope  answered.  "  I've  a 
neighbour  knows  one  by  sight.  All  day  yesterday  they 
were  hanging  about  the  door,  probing  if  the  young  lady 


SIR  HERYEY  TAKES   THE  FIELD  131 

was  come.  'Twas  on  that  account  she  surprised  me,  for  I'd 
been  led  to  look  for  a  fine  spendthrift  madam,  and  when 
she  came — Lord  ha'  mercy,  my  husband's  coming  down! 
If  you  want  the  address,"  she  continued  in  a  lower  tone,  as 
Wollenhope  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  "  'twas  in 
Clarges  Row,  at  Grocott's." 

"  Thank  you,"  Coke  said. 

"  Grocott's,"  she  repeated  in  a  whisper.  Then  in  a  louder 
tone,  "  No,  sir,  I  can't  say  when  he  will  be  at  home." 

"  Thank  you,"  Sir  Hervey  said;  and  having  got  what 
he  wanted  he  did  not  stay  to  waste  time  with  the  man,  but 
made  the  best  of  his  way  to  Charles  Street,  into  which  the 
north  end  of  Clarges  Row,  now  Clarges  Street,  opened  at 
that  date.  Deeply  engaged  with  the  paramount  question  in 
his  mind,  the  identity  of  the  young  man  in  whose  company 
Sophia  had  left  Hawkesworth's  lodgings,  he  forgot  the 
bailiffs;  and  it  was  with  some  annoyance  that,  on  reaching 
the  Row,  he  espied  one  of  them  lurking  in  a  doorway  in 
Charles  Street.  It  was  so  plain  that  they  were  watching 
him  that  Sir  Hervey  lost  patience,  turned,  and  made  tow- 
ards the  man  to  question  him.  But  the  fellow  also  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  retreating  with  an  eye  over  his  shoulder, 
disappeared  in  the  square.  To  follow  was  to  be  led  from  the 
scent;  Coke  wheeled  again,  therefore,  and  meeting  a  pot- 
boy who  knew  the  street,  he  was  directed  to  Grocott's.  The 
house  the  lad  pointed  out  was  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  Row; 
a  small  house  of  brick,  the  last  on  the  east  side  going  north. 
Sir  Hervey  scanned  the  five  windows  that  faced  the  street, 
but  they  told  him  nothing.  He  knocked — and  waited. 
And  presently,  getting  no  answer,  he  knocked  again.  And 
again — the  pot-boy  looking  on  from  a  little  distance. 

After  that  Coke  stood  back,  saw  that  the  windows  were 
still  without  sign  of  life,  and  would  have  gone  away — 
thinking  to  return  in  an  hour  or  two — but  a  woman  came 
to  the  door  of  the  next  house,  and  told  him,  "  the  old  man 


132  SOPHIA 

is  at  home,  your  honour;  it  is  not  ten  minutes  since  he  was 
at  the  door."  On  which  he  knocked  again  more  loudly  and 
insistently.  Suspicions  were  taking  shape  in  his  mind.  The 
house  seemed  too  quiet  to  be  innocent. 

He  had  his  hand  raised  to  repeat  the  summons  once  more, 
when  he  heard  a  dragging,  pottering  step  moving  along  the 
passage  towards  him.  A  chain  was  put  up,  a  key  turned, 
the  door  was  opened  a  little,  a  very  little  way.  A  pale,  fat 
face,  with  small,  cunning  eyes,  peered  out  at  him.  Unless 
he  was  mistaken,  it  was  the  face  of  a  frightened  man. 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Maitland,"  Sir  Hervey  said. 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,"  the  man  answered,  while  his  small 
eyes  scanned  the  visitor  sharply.    "  Is  it  about  a  clock?  " 

"  No,"  Coke  answered.  "  Are  you  deaf,  man?  I  wish  to 
see  the  young  lady  who  is  here;  who  came  last  night." 

"  You're  very  welcome,  I  am  sure,  but  there  is  no  young 
lady  here,  your  honour." 

Sir  Hervey  did  not  believe  it.  The  man's  sly  face,  mask- 
ing fear  under  a  smirk,  inspired  no  confidence;  this  talking 
over  a  chain,  at  that  hour,  in  the  daylight,  of  itself  imported 
something  strange.  Apparently  Grocott — for  he  it  was — 
read  the  last  thought  in  his  visitor's  eyes,  for  he  dropped 
the  chain  and  opened  the  door.  "  Was  it  about  a  clock,"  he 
asked,  the  hand  that  held  the  door  trembling  visibly,  "  that 
the  lady  came?" 

"  No,"  Sir  Hervey  answered  curtly;  he  was  not  deceived 
by  this  apparent  obtuseness.  "  I  wish,  I  tell  you,  to  see  the 
young  lady  who  came  here  with  a  gentleman  last  night. 
She  came  here  from  Davies  Street." 

"  There  is  a  lady  here,"  the  clock-maker  answered, 
slowly.    "  But  I  don't  know  that  she  will  see  any  one." 

"  She  will  see  me,"  Coke  replied  with  decision.  "  You 
don't  want  me  to  summon  her  friends,  and  cause  a  scandal, 
I  suppose?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  for  her  friends,"  Grocott  answered,  smiling 


.  SIR  HERVEY  TAKES  THE  FIELD  133 

unpleasantly,  "  I  know  nothing  about  them,  begging  your 
honour's  pardon.  And,  it  is  all  one  to  me  whom  she  sees. 
If  you'll  give  me  your  name,  sir,  I'll  take  it  to  her." 

"  Sir  Hervey  Coke." 

"  Dear,  dear,  I  beg  your  honour's  pardon,  I  am  sure," 
Grocott  exclaimed,  bowing  and  wriggling  obsequiously. 
"  It's  not  to  be  thought  that  she'll  not  see  a  gentleman  of 
your  honour's  condition.  But  I'll  take  her  pleasure  if  you'll 
be  so  good  as  to  wait  a  minute." 

He  left  Coke  standing  on  the  threshold,  and  retreated 
up  the  passage  to  the  door  of  a  room  on  the  left.  Here 
he  went  in,  closing  the  door  after  him.  Sir  Hervey  waited 
until  he  was  out  of  sight,  then  in  three  strides  he  reached 
the  same  door,  lifted  the  latch,  and  entered. 

"  'Twill  take  him  finely,  Sal!  " 

The  words  were  in  the  air — they  were  all  he  caught, 
then  silence;  and  he  stood  staring.  Abrupt  as  had  been  his 
entrance,  he  was  the  most  completely  surprised  of  the  three. 
For  the  third  in  the  room,  the  lady  to  whom  Grocott's  words 
were  addressed,  was  not  Sophia,  but  a  stranger;  a  tall,  hand- 
some woman,  with  big  black  eyes,  fashionably  dressed  and 
fashionably  painted.  The  surprise  drew  from  her  a  hasty 
exclamation;  she  rose,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  anger.  Then, 
as  Sir  Hervey,  recovering  from  his  astonishment,  bowed 
politely,  she  sat  down  again  with  an  assumption  of  fineness 
and  languor.    And,  taking  a  fan,  she  began  to  fan  herself. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  madam,"  Coke  said.  "  I  owe  you 
every  apology.  I  came  in  under  a  misapprehension.  I  ex- 
pected to  find  a  friend  here." 

"  That's  very  evident,  I  think,  sir!  "  madam  replied,  toss- 
ing her  head.  "  And  one  you  were  in  a  hurry  to  see,  I 
should  fancy." 

"  Yes,"  Sir  Hervey  answered.  He  noted  that  the  table, 
laid  with  more  elegance  than  was  to  be  expected  from  Gro- 
cott's appearance,  displayed  a  couple  of  chickens,  pigeons, 


134  SOPHIA. 

and  a  galantine,  besides  a  pretty  supply  of  bottles  and 
flasks.  "  I  trust  you  will  pardon  my  mistake.  I  was  in- 
formed that  a  young  lady  came  here  last  evening  with  a 
gentleman." 

Madam  flamed  up.  "  And  what,  sir,  is  it  to  you  if  I  did!  " 
she  cried.    And  she  rose  sharply. 

"  Your  pardon!    I  did  not  mean " 


u 


I  say,  sir,  what  is  it  to  you  if  I  did?  "  she  repeated  in 
a  tone  of  the  utmost  resentment.  "  If  I  did  come  from 
Davies  Street,  and  come  here?  I  don't  remember  to  have 
met  you  before,  and  I  fail  to  see  what  ground  you  had  for 
following  me  or  for  watching  my  movements.  I  am  sure 
I  never  gave  you  any,  and  I  am  not  used  to  impertinence. 
For  the  rest,  I  am  expecting  some  friends — Grocott?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Show  this  gentleman  out.  Or — or  perhaps  I  am 
hasty,"  she  continued,  in  a  lower  tone  and  with  an  abrupt 
return  of  good  nature.  "  The  last  thing  I  should  wish  to 
be  to  any  gentleman,"  with  a  glance  from  a  pair  of  hand- 
some eyes.  "  If  I  have  met  you  at  any  time — at  my  Lady 
Bellamy's  perhaps,  sir?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  think  not." 

"  Or  at  that  good-natured  creature,  Conyers' — dear  de- 
lightful woman;  you  know  her,  I  am  sure?  " 

"  No,"  Coke  said,  bluntly,  "  I  have  not  the  honour  of 
her  ladyship's  acquaintance;  and  I  don't  think  I  need 
trouble  you  farther.  If  there  is  no  one  else  in  the  house, 
it  is  evident  I  have  made  a  mistake.  I  offer  my  apologies, 
ma'am,  regretting  extremely  that  I  trespassed  on  you." 

"  I  occupy  the  only  rooms,"  she  answered  drily.  "  And 
— Grocott,  if  the  gentleman  is  quite  satisfied — the  door 
please!     And  send  my  woman  to  me." 

Sir  Hervey  bowed,  muttered  a  last  word  of  apology,  and 
with  a  look  round  the  room,  which  brought  to  light  nothing 
new  except  a  handsome  mail  that  stood  packed  and  strapped 


SIB  HERVET  TAKES   THE  FIELD  135 

in  a  corner,  he  passed  out.  After  all,  his  discovery  ex- 
plained the  appearance  of  the  bailiffs  outside  Wollenhope's. 
The  over-dressed  air  and  easy  manners  of  the  lady  he  had 
seen  were  those  of  one  not  given  to  economy,  nor,  probably, 
too  particular  as  to  ways  and  means.  It  accounted,  also,  for 
the  lady's  departure  from  Davies  Street  immediately  after 
her  arrival.  Clearly  Lane  had  misinformed  the  Northeys. 
It  was  not  Sophia  who  had'  gone  to  the  house  in  Davies 
Street;  nor  Sophia  who  had  left  that  house  in  a  gentleman's 
company.     Then  where  was  she? 

As  he  paused  in  the  passage  revolving  the  question  and 
seeking  half  a  crown  to  give  to  the  man  whom  he  had  sus- 
pected without  reason,  a  dull  sound  as  of  a  muffled  hammer 
beating  wood  caught  his  ear.  He  had  heard  it  indistinctly 
in  the  parlour — it  appeared  to  come  from  the  upper  floor; 
but  he  had  given  no  heed  to  it.  "  What's  that?  "  he  asked, 
idly,  as  he  drew  out  a  coin. 

"  That  noise,  your  honour?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  My  journeyman.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  see  him," 
Grocott  continued  with  a  malicious  grin.  "  May  be  he's  the 
young  lady  you're  looking  for.  Oh,  make  yourself  at  home, 
sir,"  he  added  bitterly.  "  A  poor  man  mustn't  grumble  if 
his  house  isn't  his  own  and  his  lodgers  are  insulted." 

"  Here,"  Coke  said,  and  dropping  the  half-crown  into  the 
dirty  hand  extended  for  it,  he  passed  out.  Instantly  the 
door  clanged  behind  him,  the  chain  was  put  up,  a  bolt  was 
shot;  but  although  Sir  Hervey  stood  a  moment  uncertain 
which  way  he  should  go,  or  what  he  should  do  next,  he  did 
not  notice  these  extreme  precautions,  nor  the  pale,  ugly 
face  of  triumph  that  watched  him  from  the  window  as  he 
turned  south  to  go  to  Arlington  Street. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    TUG    OF    WAR 

At  the  corner  of  Bolton  Row  Sir  Hervey  paused.  He  felt, 
to  be  candid,  a  trifle  awkward  in  the  role  of  knight-errant, 
a  part  reserved  in  those  days  for  Lord  Peterborough.  The 
Northeys'  heartless  cynicism,  and  their  instant  and  cruel 
desertion  of  the  girl,  had  stirred  the  chivalry  that  underlay 
his  cold  exterior.  But  from  the  first  he  had  been  aware  that 
his  status  in  the  matter  was  ill-defined;  he  now  began  to  see 
it  in  a  worse,  an  absurd  light.  He  had  taken  the  field  in 
the  belief  that  Sophia  had  not  stayed  in  Davies  Street;  that 
Hawkesworth,  therefore,  was  beside  the  question;  and  that 
whatever  folly  she  had  committed,  she  had  not  altogether 
compromised  herself;  he  now  found  the  data  on  which  he 
had  acted  painfully  erroneous.  She  had  not  stayed  in 
Davies  Street,  because  she  had  not  gone  to  Davies  Street. 
But  she  might  have  joined  Hawkesworth  elsewhere;  she 
might  by  this  time  be  his  wife;  she  might  be  gone  with  him 
never  to  return! 

In  that  event  Coke  began  to  see  that  his  part  in  the  mat- 
ter would  prove  to  be  worse  than  ridiculous;  and  he  paused 
at  the  corner  of  Bolton  Row,  uncertain  whether  he  should 
not  go  home  and  erase  with  a  sore  heart  a  foolish  child's 
face  from  his  memory.  His  was  a  day  of  coarse  things;  of 
duchesses  who  talked  as  fishwives  talk  now,  of  madcap  maids 
of  honour,  such  as  she — 

Who,  as  down  the  stairs  she  jumps, 
Sings  over  the  hills  and  far  away, 
Despising  doleful  dumps! 
136 


HE    STOOD,    GRINNING   IN    HIS    FINERY,    UNABLE   TO    SAY   A    WORD 


THE   TUG  OF  WAR  137 

of  bishops  seen  at  strange  levees,  of  clergy  bribed  with  liv- 
ings to  take  strange  wives;  of  hoyden  Lady  Kitties,  whose' 
talk  was  a  jumble  of  homely  saws  and  taproom  mock-modes- 
ties; of  old  men  still  swearing  as  they  had  sworn  in  Flanders 
in  their  youth.  At  the  best  it  was  not  an  age  of  ideals;  but 
neither  was  it  an  age  of  hypocrisy,  and  women  were  plenti- 
ful. Why,  then,  all  this  trouble  for  one?  And  for  one  who 
had  showed  him  plainly  what  she  thought  of  him. 

For  a  moment,  at  the  corner  of  Bolton  Row,  Sophia's  fate 
hung  in  the  balance.  Hung  so  nicely,  that  if  Coke  had  not 
paused  there,  but  had  proceeded  straight  through  Bolton 
Street,  to  Piccadilly,  and  so  to  Arlington  Street,  her  lot  would 
have  been  very  different.  But  the  debate  kept  him  stand- 
ing long  enough  to  bring  to  a  point — not  many  yards  from 
the  corner — two  figures,  which  had  just  detached  themselves 
from  the  crowd  about  Shepherd's  Market.  In  the  act  of 
stepping  across  the  gutter,  he  saw  them,  glanced  carelessly 
at  them,  and  stood.  As  the  two,  one  behind  the  other,  came 
up,  almost  brushing  him,  and  turned  to  enter  Clarges  Row, 
he  reached  out  his  cane  and  touched  the  foremost. 

"  Why,  Tom !  "  he  cried.     "  Is  it  you,  lad  ?    Well  met !  " 

Tom — for  it  was  he — turned  at  the  sound  of  his  name, 
and  seeing  who  it  was  recoiled,  as  if  the  cane  that  touched 
him  had  been  red  hot.  The  colour  mounted  to  his  wig;  he 
stood,  grinning  in  his  finery,  unable  to  say  a  word.  "  Why, 
Tom! "  Sir  Hervey  repeated,  as  he  held  out  his  hand, 
"What  is  it,  lad?  Have  you  bad  news?  You  are  on  the 
6ame  business  as  I  am,  I  take  it?  " 

Tom  blushed  redder  and  redder,  and  shifted  his  feet  un- 
easily. "  I  don't  know,  Sir  Hervey,"  he  stammered.  "  I 
don't  know  what  your  business  is,  you  see." 

"  Well,  you  can  easily  guess,"  Coke  answered,  never 
doubting  that  Tom  had  heard  what  was  forward,  and  had 
posted  from  Cambridge  in  pursuit  of  his  sister.  "  Have  you 
news?     That's  the  point." 


138  SOPHIA 

Tom  had  only  his  own  affair  in  his  mind.  He  wondered 
how  much  the  other  knew,  and  more  than  half  suspected 
that  he  was  being  roasted.  So  "News?"  he  faltered. 
"  What  sort  of  news,  sir?  "  He  had  known  Sir  Hervey  all 
his  life,  and  still  felt  for  him  the  respect  which  a  lad  feels 
for  the  man  of  experience  and  fashion. 

Coke  stared  at  him.  "What  sort  of  news?"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  It  isn't  possible  you  don't  know  what  has  hap- 
pened, boy?  "  Then,  seeing  that  the  person  who  had  come 
up  with  Tom  was  at  his  elbow,  listening,  "  Is  this  fellow 
with  you?  "  he  cried  angrily.  "  If  so,  bid  him  stand  back 
a  little." 

"  Yes,  he's  with  me,"  Tom  answered,  sheepishly;  and 
turning  to  the  lad,  who  was  laden  with  a  great  nosegay  of 
flowers  as  well  as  a  paper  parcel  from  which  some  white 
Spitalfields  ribbons  protruded,  he  bade  him  go  on.  "  Go 
on,"  he  said,  "  I'll  follow  you.  The  last  house  on  the 
right." 

Sir  Hervey  heard,  and  stared  afresh.  "  What?  "  he  cried. 
"Grocotfs?" 

Tom  winced,  and  changed  his  feet  uneasily,  cursing  his 
folly  in  letting  out  so  much.  "  It's  only  something  that — 
that  he's  taking  there,"  he  muttered. 

"  But  you  know  about  your  sister?  " 

"Sophia?"  Tom  blurted  out.  "Oh,  she's  all  right. 
She's  all  right,  I  tell  you.  You  need  not  trouble  about 
her." 

"Indeed?  Then  where  is  she?  Where  is  she,  man? 
Out  with  it." 

"  She's  with  me." 

"  With  you?  "  Sir  Hervey  cried,  his  cynicism  quite  gone. 
"With  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Was  it  you  who — who  took  her  from  Davies  Street, 
then?" 


THE   TUG   OF  WAR  139 

"  To  be  sure,"  Tom  said.  In  his  preoccupation  with  his 
own  affairs  his  sister's  position  had  been  forgotten.  Now 
he  began  to  recover  himself;  he  began,  too,  to  see  that  he 
had  done  rather  a  clever  thing.  "  Yes,  I  was  there  when 
she  met  that  fellow,"  he  continued.  "  Hawkesworth,  you 
know,  and  I  brought  her  away.  I  tell  you  what,  Sir  Her- 
vey,  that  fellow's  low.  He  should  be  in  the  Clink.  She 
found  him  out  sharp,  before  he  had  time  to  sit  down,  and 
it's  lucky  I  was  there  to  bring  her  away,  or  Lord  knows  what 
would  have  happened.  For  he's  a  monstrous  rascal,  and 
the  people  of  the  house  are  none  too  good!  " 

"  Last  night  was  it?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  you  took  her  to  Grocott's?"  Sir  Hervey  could 
not  make  the  tales  agree. 

"  Ye — es,"  Tom  faltered;  but  the  word  died  on  his  lips, 
and  he  grew  hot  again.  He  saw  too  late  that  he  had  put 
his  foot  in  a  hobble  from  which  he  would  find  it  hard  to 
extricate  himself,  with  all  his  skill.  For  it  wanted  only  a 
few  minutes  of  noon,  and  at  Grocott's,  a  hundred  paces 
away,  his  bride  was  expecting  him.  Presently  Keith,  the 
Mayfair  parson,  from  whom  he  had  just  come  after  making 
the  last  arrangements,  would  be  expecting  both!  Even 
now  he  ought  to  be  at  Grocott's;  even  now  he  ought  to  be 
on  his  way  to  the  chapel  in  Curzon  Street.  And  Grocott's 
was  in  sight;  from  where  he  stood  he  could  see  the  boy 
with  the  flowers  and  wedding  favours  waiting  at  the  door. 
But  Coke — Coke  the  inopportune — had  hold  of  his  elbow, 
and  if  he  went  to  Grocott's,  would  wish  to  go  with  him — 
would  wish  to  see  his  sister,  and  from  her  would  hear  all 
about  the  marriage.     Aye,  and  hearing,  would  interfere! 

The  cup  of  Tantalus  was  a  little  thing  beside  this,  and 
Tom's  cheeks  burned;  the  wildest  projects  flashed  through 
his  brain.  Should  he  take  Sir  Hervey  to  Grocott's,  inveigle 
him  into  a  bedroom  and  lock  him  up  till  the  wedding  was 


140  SOPHIA 

over?  Or  should  he  turn  that  instant,  and  take  to  his  heels 
like  any  common  pickpocket,  without  word  or  explanation, 
and  so  lead  him  from  the  place?  He  might  do  that,  and 
return  hy  coach  himself,  and 

Coke  broke  the  tangled  thread  of  thought.  "  There  is 
something  amiss,  here,"  he  said  with  decision.  "  She  is  not 
at  Grocott's.     Or  they  lied  to  me." 

"  She's  not  ?  "  Tom  cried,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  You've 
been  there?  Then  you  may  be  sure  she  has  gone  to  Ar- 
lington Street.     That  is  it,  you  may  be  sure!  " 

"  Aye,  but  they  said  at  Grocott's  that  she  had  not  been 
there,"  Coke  retorted,  looking  more  closely  at  Tom,  and 
beginning  to  discern  something  odd  in  his  manner. 
"  If  she's  been  there  at  all,  how  do  you  explain  that,  my 
boy?" 

"  She's  been  there  all  right,"  Tom  answered  eagerly. 
"I'm  bail  she  has!  I  tell  you  it  is  so!  And  you  may  be 
sure  she  has  gone  to  Arlington  Street.  Go  there  and  you'll 
find  her." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  You  don't  think  that  when 
your  back  was  turned " 

"What?" 

"  She  went  off  again!  " 

"  With  Hawkesworth?  "  Tom  cried  impatiently.  "  I  tell 
you  she's  found  him  out!  He's  poison  to  her!  She's  there 
I  tell  you.     Or  she  was." 

"  But  Grocott  denied  her!  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense!  "  Tom  said — he  was  as  red  as  fire  with 
asking  himself  whom  Sir  Hervey  had  seen.  "  Oh,  non- 
sense," he  repeated,  hurriedly;  he  felt  he  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  "  She  was  there,  and  she  has  gone  to  Arlington 
Street." 

"  Very  good,"  Sir  Hervey  replied.  "  Then  we'll  ask 
again.  The  man  at  the  house  lied  to  me,  and  I'll  have  an 
explanation,  or  I'll  lay  my  cane  across  his  shoulders,  old  as 


THE   TUG  OF  WAR  141 

he  is!     There  was  some  one  I  did  see  But  come 

along!     Come  along.     We'll  look  into  this,  Tom." 

It  was  in  vain  Tom  hung  back,  feebly  protesting  that  she 
had  gone — there  was  no  doubt  that  she  had  gone  to  Ar- 
lington Street.  Will-he,  nill-he,  he  was  dragged  along.  A 
moment  and  the  two,  Coke  swinging  his  cane  ominously, 
were  half-way  up  the  Row.  In  the  midst  of  his  agony  Tom 
got  a  notion  that  his  companion  was  taking  sidelong  looks 
at  his  clothes;  and  he  grew  hot  and  hotter,  fearing  what  was 
to  come.  When  they  were  within  a  few  yards  of  the  door, 
a  hackney  coach  passed  them,  and,  turning,  came  to  a  stand 
before  the  house. 

"  There!  What  did  I  say?  "  Sir  Hervey  muttered.  "  I 
take  it,  we  are  only  just  in  time." 

"  Perhaps  it's  th*e  coach  that  took  her  away,"  Tom  sug- 
gested, trying  to  restrain  his  companion.  "  Shall  I  go  in 
— I  know  the  people — and — and  inquire?  Yes,  you'd  bet- 
ter let  me  do  that,"  he  continued  eagerly,  buttonholing  Sir 
Hervey,  "  perhaps  they  did  not  know  you.  I  really  think 
you  had  better  leave  it  to  me,  Sir  Hervey.     I " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  Coke  answered  drily.  "  There's  a 
shorter  way.     Are  you  here  to  take  up,  my  man?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  your  honour,"  the  coachman  answered  read- 
ily.    "  And  long  life  to  her!  " 

"Eh?" 

"  Long  life  to  the  bride,  your  honour!  " 

"Ah!"  Sir  Hervey  said,  his  face  growing  dark.  "I 
thought  so.  I  think,  my  lad,"  he  continued  to  Tom,  as  he 
knocked  at  the  door,  "  she  and  somebody  have  made  a  fool 
of  you!  " 

"  No,  no,"  Tom  said,  distractedly.  "  It's— it's  not  for 
her." 

"  We  shall  soon  learn!  "  Coke  answered.  And  he  rapped 
again  imperatively. 

Tom  tried  to  tell  him  the  facts;  but  his  throat  was  dry, 


142  SOPHIA 

his  head  whirled,  he  could  not  get  out  a  word.  And  by- 
and-by  Grocott's  dragging  steps  were  heard  in  the  passage, 
the  latch  was  raised,  and  the  door  opened. 

"  Now,  sir!  "  Coke  cried,  addressing  him  sharply.  "  What 
did  you  mean  by  lying  to  me  just  now?  Here  is  the  gentle- 
man who  brought  Miss  Maitland  to  your  house.  And  if  you 
don't  tell  me,  and  tell  me  quickly,  where  she  is,  I'll — I'll 
send  for  the  constable!  " 

Grocott  was  pale,  but  his  face  did  not  lose  its  sneering 
expression.     "  She's  gone,"  he  said. 

"  You  said  she  had  not  been  here." 

"  Well,  it  was  her  order.  I  suppose,"  with  a  touch  of 
insolence,  "  a  lady  can  be  private,  sir,  if  she  chooses." 

"  What  time  did  she  go  ?  " 

"  Ten  minutes  gone." 

Tom  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  I  told  you  so,"  he  mut- 
tered. "  She's  gone  to  Arlington  Street.  It's  what  I  told 
you." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Coke  answered.  "  This  coach  is 
for  her.  It  is  hjere  to  take  her  to  the  rascal  we  know  of;  and 
I'll  not  leave  till  I've  seen  her.  Why,  man,"  he  continued, 
incensed  as  well  as  perplexed  by  Tom's  easiness,  "  have  you 
no  blood  in  your  body  that  you're  ready  to  stand  by  while 
your  sister's  fooled  by  a  scoundrel?" 

Tom  smiled  pitifully,  and  passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips; 
he  looked  guiltily  at  Grocott,  and  Grocott  at  him.  The  lad's 
face  was  on  fire,  the  sweat  stood  in  beads  on  Grocott's  fore- 
head. Neither  knew  with  precision  the  other's  position  nor 
how  much  he  had  told.  And  while  the  two  stood  thus,  Sir 
Hervey  looking  suspiciously  from  one  to  the  other,  the  same 
dull  sound  Coke  had  heard  before — a  sound  as  of  the  drum- 
ming of  heels  on  the  floor — continued  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  house.  The  hackney  coachman,  an  interested  spectator 
of  the  scene,  heard  it,  and  looked  at  the  higher  windows  in 
annoyance.     The  sound  drowned  the  speaker's  words. 


THE   TUG   OF  WAR  143 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  me  search?  "  Coke  said  at  last. 

Grocott  shook  his  head.  He  could  not  speak.  He  was 
wondering  what  they  would  call  the  offence  at  the  Old  Bailey 
or  Hicks's  Hall.  He  saw  himself  in  the  dock,  with  the  tall 
spikes  and  bunches  of  herbs  before  him,  and  the  gross  crim- 
son face  of  the  Red  Judge  glowering  at  him  through  horn- 
rimmed spectacles — glowering  death.  Should  he  confess 
and  bring  her  down,  and  with  that  put  an  end  to  his  daugh- 
ter's hopes?  Or  should  he  stand  it  out,  defy  them  all,  gain 
time,  perhaps  go  scot  free  at  last? 

"  Well?  "  Coke  repeated  sternly;  "  have  you  made  up  your 
mind?     Am  T  to  send  for  the  constable?  " 

Still  Grocott  found  no  answer.  His  wits  were  so  jumbled 
by  fear  and  the  predicament  in  which  he  found  himself, 
that  he  could  not  decide  what  to  do.  And  while  he  hesi- 
tated, gaping,  the  matter  was  taken  out  of  his  hands.  The 
door  behind  him  opened,  and  the  lady  whom  Sir  Hervey 
had  seen  before  came  out  of  the  room. 

She  looked  at  the  group  with  a  mixture  of  weariness  and 
impatience.  "Is  the  gentleman  not  satisfied  yet?"  she 
said.     "What  is  all  this?" 

"  I  am  satisfied,  madam,"  Sir  Hervey  retorted,  "  that  I 
did  not  hear  the  truth  before." 

"  Well,  you  are  too  late  now,"  she  answered,  "  for  she's 
gone.     She  didn't  wish  to  see  you,  and  there's  an  end." 

"  I  shall  not  believe,  ma'am " 

"  Not  believe?  "  she  cried,  opening  her  eyes  with  sudden 
fire.  "  I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,  sir.  I  suppose 
you  will  take  a  lady's  word?  " 

"  If  the  lady  will  tell  me  for  whom  the  coach  at  the  door 
is  waiting,"  Sir  Hervey  answered  quietly;  and  as  he  spoke 
he  made  good  his  footing  by  crossing  the  threshold.  He 
could  not  see  the  hot,  foolish  face  that  followed  him  in  to 
the  passage,  or  he  might  have  been  enlightened  sooner. 

"  The  coach?  "  she  said.     "  It  is  for  me." 


144  SOPHIA 

"  It  is  for  a  bride." 

"  I  am  the  bride." 

"  And  the  bridegroom  ?  " 

Her  eyes  sparkled.  "  Come!  "  she  cried.  "  How  is  that 
your  affair?  We  poor  women  have  impertinences  enough 
to  suffer  on  these  occasions;  but  it  is  new  to  me  that  the 
questions  of  chance  visitors  are  part  of  them!  Room's  more 
than  company,  sometimes,"  she  added,  tossing  her  head,  her 
accent  not  quite  so  genteel  as  it  had  been,  when  she  was  less 
moved.     "  And  I'll  be  glad  to  see  your  back." 

'  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,  ma'am,"  Coke  re- 
plied unmoved.  "  But  I  see  no  impertinence  in  my  ques- 
tion— unless,  indeed,  you  are  ashamed  of  your  bridegroom." 

"  That  I'm  not!  "  she  cried.  "  That  I'm  not!  And  "— 
snapping  her  fingers  in  his  face — "  that  for  you.  You  are 
impertinent!     Ashamed?     No,  sir,  I  am  not!  " 

"  And  God  forbid  I  should  be  ashamed  of  my  bride!  " 
cried  a  husky  voice  behind  Sir  Hervey;  who  turned  as  if  he 
had  been  pinched.  "No,  I'll  be  silent  no  longer,"  Tom 
continued,  his  face  the  colour  of  a  beet,  albeit  his  eyes  over- 
flowed with  honest  devotion.  "I've  played  coward  too 
long!  "  he  went  on,  stretching  out  his  arms  as  if  he  were 
throwing  off  a  weight.  "  Let  go,  man  "—this  to  Grocott, 
as  the  latter  stealthily  plucked  his  sleeve.  "  Sir  Hervey,  I 
didn't  tell  you  before,  but  it  wasn't  because  I  was  ashamed 
of  my  bride.  Not  I!  "  poor  Tom  cried  bravely.  "  It  was 
because  I — I  thought  you  might  do  something  to  thwart  me. 
This  lady  has  done  me  the  honour  of  entrusting  her  hap- 
piness to  me,  and  before  one  o'clock  we  shall  be  married. 
Now  you  know." 

'  Indeed! ';  Sir  Hervey  said.  And  great  as  was  his 
amazement,  he  managed  to  cloak  it  after  a  fashion.  In  the 
first  burst  of  Tom's  confession  he  had  glanced  from  him  to 
the  lady,  and  had  surprised  a  black — a  very  black  look. 
That  same  look  he  caught  on  Grocott's  face;  and  in  a  won- 


THE   TUG   OF   WAR  145 

derfully  short  space  of  time  he  had  drawn  his  conclusions. 
"  Indeed!  "  he  repeated.  "  And  whom  have  I — perhaps  we 
might  step  into  this  room,  we  shall  be  more  of  a  family 
party,  eh? — whom  have  I  to  felicitate  on  the  possession  of 
Sir  Thomas  Maitland's  heart?  " 

He  bowed  so  low  before  madam  that  she  was  almost  de- 
ceived; but  not  quite.     She  did  not  answer. 

"  Oriana,  tell  him,"  Tom  cried  humbly.  He  was  de- 
ceived.    His  eyes  were  shining  with  honest  pride. 

Coke  caught  at  the  name.  "  Oriana!  "  he  repeated,  bow- 
ing still  lower.     "  Mistress  Oriana " 

"  Clark,"  she  said  drily.  And  then,  "  You  are  not  much 
wiser  now." 

"  My  loss,  ma'am,"  Sir  Hervey  answered  politely.  "  One 
of  Sir  Eobert  Clark  of  Snailwell's  charming  daughters,  per- 
haps? Until  now  I  had  only  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the 
elder,  but " 

"  You  know  no  more  now,"  she  retorted,  with  an  air  of 
low  breeding  that  must  have  opened  any  eyes  but  a  lover's. 
"  I  don't  know  your  Sir  Robert." 

"Indeed!"  Sir  Hervey  said.  "One  of  the  Leicester- 
shire Clarks,  of  Lawnd  Abbey,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  No,"  madam  answered  sullenly,  hating  him  more  and 
more,  yet  not  daring  to  show  it.  How  she  cursed  her  booby 
for  his  indiscretion! 

"  Surely  not  a  daughter  of  my  old  friend,  Dean  Clark  of 
Salisbury?     You  don't  say  so?" 

She  bit  her  lip  with  mortification.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  I 
don't  say  so.     I  ain't  that  either." 

Tom  intervened  hurriedly.  "  You  are  under  a  misappre- 
hension, Sir  Hervey,"  he  said.  "  Clark  was  Oriana's — her 
husband's  name.  Captain  Clark,  of  Sabine's  Foot.  He  did 
not  treat  her  well,"  poor  Tom  continued,  leaning  forward, 
his  hands  resting  on  the  table — they  were  all  in  the  room 
10 


146  SOPHIA 

now.     "  But  I  hope  to  make  the  rest  of  her  life  more  happy 
than  the  early  part." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,"  Sir  Hervey  said,  a  trifle  drily.  "  A 
widow!  Your  humble  servant,  ma'am,  to  command.  You 
will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure.  You  are  waiting  for  Mrs. 
Northey,  I  suppose?"  he  continued,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other  in  seeming  innocence. 

Tom's  face  flamed.  It  was  in  vain  Grocott  from  the  door- 
way made  signs  to  him  to  be  silent.  "  They  don't  know," 
he  blurted  out. 

Sir  Hervey  looked  grave.  "  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  sure  this  lady  would  not  wish  you,  Sir  Tom,  to  do 
anything — anything  underhand.  You  have  your  guardians' 
consent,  of  course?" 

"  No,"  Tom  said  flatly;  "  and  I  am  not  going  to  ask  for 
it." 

Outwardly,  Sir  Hervey  raised  his  eyebrows  in  protest;  in- 
wardly, he  saw  that  argument  would  be  thrown  away,  and 
wondered  what  on  earth  he  should  do.  He  had  no  au- 
thority over  the  boy,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  Dr.  Keith, 
an  irregular  parson,  would  pay  heed  to  him. 

Madam  Oriana,  scared  for  a  moment,  discerned  that  he 
was  at  a  loss,  and  smiled  in  triumph. 

"  Well,  sir,  have  you  anything  more  to  say?  "  she  cried. 

"  Not  to  Tom,"-  Sir  Hervey  answered. 

"And  to  me?" 

"  Only,  ma'am,  that  a  marriage  is  not  valid  if  a  false  name 
be  used." 

The  shot  was  not  fired  quite  at  large,  for  he  had  surprised 
Grocott  calling  her  not  Oriana,  but  Sallie.  And,  fired  at 
large  or  not,  her  face  showed  that  it  reached  the  mark. 
Whether  Captain  Clark  of  Sabine's  Foot  still  lived,  or  there 
had  never  been  a  Clark;  whether  she  had  foreseen  the  diffi- 
culty and  made  up  her  mind  to  run  the  risk,  or  had  not 
thought  of  it  at  all,  her  scowling,  beautiful  face  betrayed  dis- 
may as  well  as  rage. 


THE   TUG   OF  WAR  147 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  my  name?  "  she  hissed. 

"  Nothing,"  he  said  politely.  "  But  my  friend  here, 
much.  I  hope  he  knows  it,  and  knows  it  correctly.  That 
is  all." 

But  Tom  was  at  the  end  of  his  patience. 

"  I  do,"  he  cried  hotly,  "  I  do  know  it!  And  I'll  trouble 
you,  Sir  Hervey,  to  let  it  alone.  Oriana,  don't  think  that 
anything  he  can  say  can  move  me.  I  see,  Sir  Hervey,  that 
you  are  no  true  friend  to  us.  I  might  have  known  it,"  he 
continued  bitterly.  "  You  have  lived  all  your  life  where — 
where  marriage  is  a  bargain,  and  women  are  sold,  and — 
you  don't  believe  in  anything  else.  You  can't;  you  can't 
believe  in  anything  else.  But  I  am  only  sorry  for  you! 
Only — Only  you'll  please  to  remember  that  this  lady  is  as 
good  as  my  wife,  and  I  expect  her  to  be  treated  as  such. 
She'll  not  need  a  defender  as  long  as  I  live,"  poor  Tom  con- 
tinued, gallantly,  though  his  voice  shook.  "  Come,  Oriana, 
the  coach  is  waiting.  In  a  few  minutes  I  shall  have  a  bet- 
ter right  to  protect  you;  and  then  let  any  one  say  a  word!  " 

"  Tom,"  Sir  Hervey  said  gravely,  "  don't  do  this." 

Madam  marked  his  altered  tone,  and  laughed  derisively. 
"  Now  he's  in  his  true  colours!  "  she  cried.  "  What  will  you 
do,  Sir  Thomas?  La!  they  shall  never  say  that  I  dragged 
a  man  to  church  against  his  will.  I've  more  pride  than  that, 
though  I  may  not  be  a  dean's  daughter." 

Tom  raised  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  his  boyish  face  aglow 
with  love.  "  Come,  dear,"  he  said.  "  What  is  his  opinion 
to  us?  A  little  room,  if  you  please,  Sir  Hervey.  We  are 
going." 

"  No,"  Coke  answered.  "  You  are  not  going!  I'll  not 
have  this  on  my  head.  Hear  sense,  boy.  If  this  lady  be 
one  whom  you  may  honestly  make  your  wife,  you  cannot 
lose,  and  she  must  gain,  by  waiting  to  be  married  in  a  proper 
fashion." 

"  And  at  a  nice  expense,  too!  "  she  cried,  with  a  sneer. 


148  SOPHIA 

"  She  is  right,"  Tom  said  manfully.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
waste  my  life  waiting  on  the  pleasure  of  a  set  of  old  fogies. 
Make  way,  Sir  Hervey." 

"  I  shall  not,"  Coke  returned,  maintaining  his  position 
between  the  two  and  the  door.  "  And  if  you  come  near  me, 
boy " 

"  Don't  push  me  too  far,"  Tom  cried.  From  no  one  else 
in  the  world  would  he  have  endured  so  much.  "  Sir  Her- 
vey, make  way!  " 

"  If  he  does  not,  we  will  have  him  put  out!  "  madam  cried, 
pale  with  rage.  "  This  is  my  room,  sir!  and  I  order  you  to 
leave  it.     If  you  are  a  gentleman  you  will  go." 

"  I  shall  not,"  Coke  said.  He  was  really  at  his  wits'  end 
to  know  what  to  do.  "  And  if  the  boy  comes  near  me,"  he 
continued,  "  I  will  knock  him  down  and  hold  him.  He's 
only  fit  for  Bedlam!  " 

Tom  would  have  flown  at  his  throat,  but  madam  restrained 
him.  "  Grocott,"  she  cried,  "  call  in  a  couple  of  chairmen, 
and  put  this  person  out.  Give  them  a  guinea  apiece,  and 
let  them  throw  him  into  the  street." 

Grocott  hung  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  pale,  perspiring, 
irresolute.     He  could  not  see  the  end  of  this. 

"  Do  you  hear,  man?  "  madam  repeated,  and  stamped  her 
foot  on  the  floor.  "  Call  in  two  men.  A  guinea  apiece  if 
they  turn  him  out.  Go  at  once.  I'll  know  whether  the 
room  is  mine  or  his,"  she  continued,  in  a  fury. 

"  Yours,  ma'am,"  Sir  Hervey  answered  coolly,  as  Grocott 
shambled  out.  "  I  ask  nothing  better  than  to  leave  it,  if 
Sir  Thomas  Maitland  goes  with  me." 

"  You'll  leave  it  without  him!  "  she  retorted  contemptu- 
ously. And,  as  Tom  made  a  forward  movement,  "  Sir 
Thomas,  you'll  not  interfere  in  this.  I've  had  to  do  with 
nasty  rogues  like  him  before,"  she  continued,  with  growing 
excitement  and  freedom,  "  and  know  the  way.  You're 
mighty  fine,  sir,  and  think  to  tread  on  me.     Oh,  for  all  your 


THE    TUG   OF    WAR  149 

bowing,  I  saw  you  look  at  me  when  you  came  in  as  if  I  was 
so  much  dirt!  But  I'll  not  be  put  upon,  and  I'll  let  you 
know  it.  You  are  a  jackanapes  and  a  finicky  fool,  that's 
what  you  are!  Aye,  you  are!  But  here  they  come.  Now 
we'll  see.     Grocott!  " 

"  They  are  coming,"  the  clock-maker  muttered,  cringing 
in  the  doorway.  The  line  of  action  adopted  was  too  violent 
for  his  taste.  "  But  I  hope  the  gentleman  will  go  out  quiet- 
ly," he  rejoined.     "  He  must  see  he  has  no  right  here." 

It  was  no  question  of  courage;  Sir  Hervey  had  plenty  of 
that.  But  he  had  no  stomach  for  a  low  brawl;  and  at  this 
moment  he  wished  very  heartily  that  he  had  let  the  young 
scapegrace  go  his  own  way.  He  had  put  his  foot  down, 
however,  wisely  or  unwisely;  and  he  could  not  now  retreat. 

"  I  shall  not  go,"  he  said  firmly.  And  as  heavy,  lumber- 
ing footsteps  were  heard  coming  along  the  passage,  he  turned 
to  face  the  door. 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  Mrs.  Clark  cried  spitefully. 
"  Come  in,  men;  come  in!     This  is  your  gentleman." 


CHAPTEE  XII 

DON    QUIXOTE 

Coke  had  spent  a  dozen  seasons  in  London;  and  naturally 
to  those  who  lived  about  town  his  figure  was  almost  as  fa- 
miliar as  that  of  Sir  Hanbury  Williams,  the  beau  of  the  last 
generation,  or  that  of  Lord  Lincoln,  the  pride  and  hope  of 
the  golden  youth  of  '42.  The  chairman  who  had  never  left 
the  rank  in  St.  James's  Street  in  obedience  to  his  nod  was 
as  likely  as  not  to  ask  the  way  to  Mrs.  Cornely's  rooms;  the 
hackney-coachman  who  did  not  know  his  face  and  liveries 
was  a  stranger  also  to  the  front  of  White's,  and  to  the  cry  of 
"  Who  goes  home?  "  that  on  foggy  evenings  drew  a  hundred 
link-boys  to  New  Palace  Yard.  In  his  present  difficulty  his 
principal,  and  almost  his  only  hope  of  escaping  from  a  de- 
grading scuffle  lay  in  this  notoriety. 

It  bade  fair  to  be  justified.  The  two  men  who  slouched 
into  the  room  in  obedience  to  Mrs.  Clark's  excited  cry  had 
scarcely  crossed  the  threshold  when  they  turned  to  him  and 
grinned,  and  the  foremost  made  him  a  sort  of  bow.  Sir 
Hervey  stared,  and  wondered  where  he  had  seen  the  men 
before;  but  in  a  twinkling  his  doubt,  as  well  as  the  half- 
smothered  cry  that  at  the  same  instant  burst  from  madam's 
lips,  were  explained. 

"  Mrs.  Oriana  Clark,  otherwise  Grocott?  "  the  elder  man 
muttered,  and,  stepping  forward  briskly,  he  laid  a  slip  of 
paper  on  the  table  before  her.  "  At  suit  of  Margam's,  of 
Paul's  Churchyard,  for  forty-seven,  six,  eight,  debt  and 

150 


DON   QUIXOTE  151 

costs.  Here  s  the  capias.  And  there's  a  detainer  lodged." 
So  much  said,  he  seemed  to  feel  the  official  part  of  his  duty 
accomplished,  and  he  turned  with  a  wink  to  Grocott. 
"  Much  obliged  to  the  old  gentleman  for  letting  us  in.  As 
pretty  a  capture  as  I  ever  made!     Trigg,  mind  the  door." 

The  miser  who  sees  his  hoarded  all  sink  beneath  the 
waves;  the  leader  who,  in  the  flush  of  victory,  falls  into  the 
deadly  ambush  and  knows  all  lost;  the  bride  widowed  on 
her  wedding  morn — these  may  in  some  degree  serve  to 
image  madam  at  that  moment.  White  to  the  lips,  her  eyes 
staring,  she  plucked  at  the  front  of  her  dress  with  one  hand, 
and,  leaning  with  the  other  against  the  wall,  seemed  to 
struggle  for  speech. 

It  was  Tom  who  stepped  forward,  Tom  who  instinctively, 
like  the  brave  soul  he  was,  screened  her  from  their  eyes. 
"  What  is  it?  "  he  said  hoarsely.  "  Have  a  care,  man,  whom 
you  speak  to!     What  do  you  mean,  and  who  are  you?  " 

"  Easy  asked  and  soon  answered,"  the  fellow  replied,  civ- 
illy enough.  "  I'm  a  sworn  bailiff,  it's  a  capias  forty-seven, 
six,  eight,  debt  and  costs — that's  what  it  is.  And  there's  a 
detainer  lodged,  so  it's  no  use  to  pay  till  you  know  where 
you  are.     The  lady  is  here,  and  I  am  bound  to  take  her." 

"  It's  a  mistake,"  Tom  muttered,  his  voice  indistinct. 
"  There's  some  mistake,  man.     What  is  the  name?  " 

"  Well,  it's  Clark,  alias  Grocott  on  the  writ;  and  it's  Clark, 
alias  Hawkesworth " 

"  Hawkesworth?  " 

"Yes,  Hawkesworth,  on  the  detainer,"  the  bailiff  an- 
swered, smiling.  "  I  don't  take  on  myself  to  say  which  is 
right,  but  the  old  gentleman  here  should  know." 

At  that  word  the  unhappy  woman,  thwarted  in  the  mo- 
ment of  success,  roused  herself  from  the  first  stunning  ef- 
fects of  the  blow.  With  a  cry  she  tore  her  handkerchief 
into  two  or  three  pieces,  and,  thrusting  one  end  into  her 
mouth,  bit  on  it.     Then,  "  Silence!  "  she  shrieked.     "  Si- 


152  SOPHIA 

lence,  you  dirty  dog!  "  she  continued  coarsely.  "  How  dare 
you  lay  your  tongue  to  me?     Do  you  hear  me?  " 

But  Tom  interfered.  "  No,  one  moment,"  he  said  grim- 
ly. That  word,  Hawkesworth,  had  chilled  his  blood.  "  Let 
us  hear  what  he  has  to  say.  Listen  to  me,  man.  Why 
should  the  old  gentleman  know  ?  " 

The  man  hesitated,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 
"  Well,  they  say  he's  her  father,"  he  answered  at  last.  "  At 
any  rate  he  brought  her  up;  that  is,  until — well,  I  suppose 
you  know." 

She  shrieked  out  a  denial;  but  Tom,  without  taking  his 
eyes  from  the  bailiff's  face,  put  out  his  hand,  and,  gripping 
her  arm,  held  her  back.  "  Yes,  man,  until  what?  "  he  said 
hoarsely.     "  Speak  out.     Until  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  until  she  went  to  live  with  Hawkesworth,  your 
honour." 

"  Ah!  "  Tom  said,  his  face  white;  only  that  word.  But, 
dropping  his  hand  from  her  arm,  he  stood  back. 

She  should  have  known  that  all  was  lost  then;  that  the 
game  was  played  out.  But,  womanlike,  she  could  not  ac- 
cept defeat.  "  It's  a  lie!  "  she  shrieked.  "  A  dirty,  cow- 
ardly lie!  It's  not  true!  I  swear  it  is  not  true!  It's  not 
true! ,:  And  breathless,  panting,  furious,  she  turned  first 
to  one  and  then  to  another,  stretching  out  her  hands,  heap- 
ing senseless  denial  on  denial.  At  last,  when  she  read  no 
relenting  in  the  boy's  face,  but  only  the  quivering  of  pain 
as  he  winced  under  the  lash  of  her  loosened  tongue,  she 
cast  the  mask — that  had  already  slipped — completely  away, 
and,  turning  on  the  old  man,  "  You  fool!  oh,  you  fool!  "  she 
cried.  "  Have  you  nothing  to  say  now  that  you  have  ruined 
me?  Pay  the  beast,  do  you  hear?  Pay  him,  or  I'll  ruin 
you! " 

But  the  clock-maker,  terrified  as  he  was,  clung  sullenly 
to  his  money.  "  There's  a  detainer,"  he  muttered.  "  It's 
no  good,  Bess.     It's  no  good,  I  tell  you!  " 


DON   QUIXOTE  153 

"  Well,  pay  the  detainer!  Pay  that,  too!  "  she  retorted. 
"  Pay  it,  you  old  skinflint,  or  I'll  swear  to  you  for  gold  clip- 
ping! and  you'll  hang  at  Tyburn,  as  your  friend  Jonathan 
Thomas  did!  Have  a  care,  will  you,  or  I'll  do  it,  so  help 
me!" 

The  old  man  screamed  a  palsied  curse  at  her.  Sir  Her- 
vey  touched  the  lad's  arm.  "  Come,"  he  said  sternly.  And 
he  turned  to  the  door. 

Tom  shuddered,  but  followed  at  his  heels  as  a  beaten 
hound  follows.  The  woman  saw  her  last  chance  passing 
from  her,  sprang  forward,  and  tried  to  seize  his  arm;  tried 
to  detain  him,  tried  to  gain  his  ear  for  a  final  appeal.  But 
the  bailiff  interfered.  "  Softly,  mistress,  softly,"  he  said. 
"  You  know  the  rules.  Get  the  old  'un  to  pay,  and  you  may 
do  as  you  please." 

He  held  her  while  Tom  was  got  out,  dizzy  and  shaking, 
his  eyes  opened  to  the  abyss  from  which  he  had  been  plucked 
back.  But,  though  Coke  closed  the  door  behind  them,  the 
woman's  voice  still  followed  them,  and  shocked  and  horri- 
fied them  with  its  shrill  clamour.  Tom  shuddered  at  the 
dreadful  sound;  yet  lingered. 

"  I  must  get  something  "  he  muttered,  avoiding  his  com- 
panion's eyes.     "  It  is  upstairs." 

"What  is  it?"  Coke  answered  impatiently.  And,  anx- 
ious to  get  the  lad  out  of  hearing,  he  took  his  arm,  and 
urged  him  towards  the  street.  "  Whatever  it  is,  I'll  send 
my  man  for  it." 

But  Tom  hung  back.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  It's  money.  I 
must  get  it." 

"  For  goodness'  sake  don't  stay  now,"  Sir  Hervey  pro- 
tested. 

But  Tom,  instead  of  complying,  averted  his  face.  "I 
want  to  pay  this,"  he  muttered.  "I  shall  never  see  her 
again.  But  I  would  rather  she — she  were  not  taken  now. 
That's  all." 


154  SOPHIA 

Coke  stared.  "  Oh  Lord! "  he  said;  and  he  wondered. 
But  he  let  Tom  go  upstairs;  and  he  waited  himself  in  the 
passage  to  cover  his  retreat.  He  heard  the  lad  go  up  and 
push  open  the  door  of  the  little  three-cornered  room,  which 
had  been  his  abode  for  a  week;  the  little  room  where  he  had 
tasted  to  the  full  of  anticipation,  and  whence  he  had  gone 
aglow  with  fire  and  joy  an  hour  before.  Coke  heard  him 
no  farther,  but  continued  to  listen,  and  "What  is  that?" 
he  muttered  presently.  A  moment,  and  he  followed  his 
companion  up  the  stairs;  at  the  head  of  the  flight  he  caught 
again  the  sound  he  had  heard  below;  the  sound  of  a  muffled 
cry  deadened  by  distance  and  obstacles,  but  still  almost  ar- 
ticulate. He  looked  after  Tom;  but  the  door  of  the  room 
in  which  he  had  disappeared  was  half  open.  The  sound  did 
not  issue  thence.  Then  he  thought  it  came  from  the  room 
below;  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  turning  when  he  saw  a 
door  close  beside  him  in  the  angle  of  the  stairs,  and  he 
listened  at  that.  For  the  moment  all  was  silent,  yet  Sir 
Hervey  had  his  doubts.  The  key  was  in  the  lock,  he  turned 
it  softly,  and  stepped  into  an  untidy  little  bedroom,  sordid 
and  dull;  the  same,  in  fact,  through  which  Sophia  had  been 
decoyed.  He  noticed  the  door  at  the  farther  end,  and  was 
crossing  the  floor  towards  it,  with  an  unpleasant  light  in  his 
eyes — for  he  began  to  guess  what  he  should  find — when  the 
door  of  the  room  below  opened,  and  a  man  came  out,  and 
came  heavily  up  the  stairs.  Sir  Hervey  paused  and  looked 
back;  another  moment  and  Grocott  reaching  the  open  door 
stood  glaring  in. 

Sir  Hervey  spoke  only  one  word.  "  Open!  "  he  said;  and 
he  pointed  with  his  cane  to  the  door  of  the  inner  room.  The 
key  was  not  in  the  lock. 

The  clock-maker,  cringing  almost  to  the  boards,  crept 
across  the  floor,  and  producing  the  key  from  his  pocket,  set 
it  in  the  lock.  As  he  did  so  Coke  gripped  him  on  a  sudden 
by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  irresistibly  but  silently  forced 


DON  QUIXOTE  155 

him  to  his  knees.  And  that  was  what  Sophia  saw  when 
the  door  opened.  Grocott  kneeling,  his  dirty,  flabby  face 
quivering  with  fear,  and  Sir  Hervey  standing  over  him. 

"  Oh! "  she  exclaimed,  and  stepped  back  in  amazement; 
but,  so  much  thought  given  to  herself,  her  next  was  for 
Tom.  She  had  been  a  prisoner  nearly  two  hours,  in  fear 
as  well  as  in  suspense,  assailed  at  one  time  by  the  fancy  that 
those  who  had  snared  her  had  left  her  to  starve,  at  another 
by  the  dread  of  ill-treatment  if  they  returned.  But  the 
affection  for  her  brother,  which  had  roused  her  from  her 
own  troubles,  was  still  strong,  and  her  second  thought  was 
of  Tom. 

She  seized  Sir  Hervey's  arm,  "  Thank  Heaven  you  have 
come!  "  she  cried.    "  Did  he  send  you?    Where  is  he?" 

"Tom?  "Coke  answered  cheerily.  "  He  is  all  right.  He 
is  here." 

"  Here?     And  he  is  not  married?  " 

"  No,  he  is  not  married,"  Sir  Hervey  answered;  "nor  is 
he  going  to  be  yet  awhile." 

"  Thank  God!  "  she  exclaimed.  And  then,  as  their  eyes 
met,  she  remembered  herself,  and  quailed,  the  blushes  burn- 
ing in  her  cheeks.  She  had  not  seen  him  since  the  evening 
at  Vauxhall,  when  he  had  laboured  to  open  her  eyes  to 
Hawkesworth's  true  character.  The  things  that  had  hap- 
pened, the  things  she  had  done  since  that  evening  crowded 
into  her  mind;  she  could  have  sunk  into  the  floor  for  very 
shame.  She  did  not  know  how  much  he  knew  or  how  much 
worse  than  she  was  he  might  be  thinking  her;  and  in  an 
agony  of  recollection  she  covered  her  face  and  shrank  from 
him. 

"  Come,  child,  come,  you  are  safe  now,"  he  said  hurried- 
ly; he  understood  her  feelings.  "  I  suppose  they  locked 
you  here  that  you  might  not  interfere?  Eh,  was  that  it?  " 
he  continued,  seizing  Grocott's  ear  and  twisting  it  until  the 
old  rogue  grovelled  on  the  floor.     "  Eh,  was  that  it?  '; 


156  SOPHIA 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  the  clock-maker  cried.  "  That  was  it! 
I'll  beg  the  lady's  pardon.     I'll  do  anything!     I'll " 

"  You'll  hang — some  day!  "  Sir  Hervey  answered,  releas- 
ing him  with  a  final  twist.  "  Begone  for  this  time,  and 
thank  your  stars  I  don't  haul  you  to  the  nearest  justice! 
And  do  you,  child,  come  to  your  brother.  He  is  in  the  next 
room." 

But  when  Sophia  had  so  far  conquered  her  agitation  as  to 
be  able  to  comply,  they  found  no  Tom  there;  only  a  scrap 
of  paper,  bearing  a  line  or  two  of  writing,  lay  on  the  table. 

"  I'm  gone  to  enlist,  or  something,  I  don't  care  what.  It 
doesn't  matter,"  it  ran.  "  Don't  come  after  me,  for  I  shan't 
come  back.  Let  Sophy  have  my  setter  pup,  it's  at  the  hall. 
I  see  it  now;  it  was  a  trap.  If  I  meet  H.  I  shall  kill  him. 
— T.  M." 

"  He  has  found  her  out,  then?  "  Sophia  said  tearfully. 

"  Yes,"  Sir  Hervey  answered,  standing  at  the  table  and 
drumming  on  it  with  his  fingers,  while  he  looked  at  her  and 
wondered  what  was  to  be  done  next.  "  He  has  found  her 
out.  In  a  year  he  will  be  none  the  worse  and  a  little 
wiser." 

"  But  if  he  enlists?  "  she  murmured. 

"  We  shall  hear  of  it,"  Coke  answered,  "  and  can  buy  him 
out."  And  then  there  was  silence  again.  And  he  won- 
dered again  what  was  to  be  done  next. 

Below,  the  house  was  quiet.  Either  the  bailiffs  had  re- 
moved their  prisoner,  or  she  had  been  released,  and  she  and 
they  had  gone  their  ways.  Even  Grocott,  it  would  seem, 
terrified  by  the  position  in  which  he  found  himself,  had 
taken  himself  off  for  a  while,  for  not  a  sound  save  the  meas- 
ured ticking  of  clocks  broke  the  silence  of  the  house,  above 
stairs  or  below.  After  a  time,  as  Sophia  said  nothing,  Sir 
Hervey  moved  to  the  window  and  looked  into  the  Row.  The 
coach  that  had  waited  so  long  was  gone.  A  thin  rain  was 
beginning  to  fall,  and  through  it  a  pastrycook's  boy  with  a 


DON  QUIXOTE  157 

tray  on  his  head  was  approaching  the  next  house.  Other- 
wise the  street  was  empty. 

"  Did — did  my  sister  send  you?  "  she  faltered  at  last. 

"  No." 

"  How  did  you  find  me?  " 

"I  heard  from  your  brother-in-law,"  he  answered,  his 
face  still  averted. 

"  What?  " 

"  That  you  had  gone  to  Davies  Street." 

"  He  knew?  "  she  muttered. 

"  Yes." 

She  caught  her  breath.  "  Is  it  public?  "  she  whispered. 
"  I  suppose  everybody — knows." 

"  Well,  some  do,  I've  no  doubt,"  he  answered  bluntly. 
"  Women  will  worry  something,  and,  of  course,  there  is  a 
— sort  of  a  bone  in  it." 

She  shivered,  humiliated  by  the  necessity  that  lay  upon 
her.  She  must  clear  herself.  It  had  come  to  this,  she  had 
brought  it  to  this,  that  she  must  clear  herself  even  in  his 
eyes.  "  My  brother  was  there,"  she  said  indistinctly,  her 
face  covered  from  his  gaze. 

"  I  know,"  he  answered. 

"  Do  they  know  ?  " 

He  understood  that  she  meant  the  Northeys.  "  No,"  he 
answered.     "  Not  yet." 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  Then — "  What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 
she  asked  faintly. 

She  had  gone  through  so  many  strange  things  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours  that  this  which  should  have  seemed  the 
strangest  of  all — that  she  should  consult  him — passed  with 
her  for  ordinary.  But  not  with  Coke.  It  showed  him  more 
clearly  than  before  her  friendlessness,  her  isolation,  her  for- 
lornness,  and  these  things  moved  him.  He  knew  what  the 
world  would  think  of  her  escapade,  what  sharp-tongued  gos- 
sips like  Lady  Harrington  would  make  of  it,  what  easy 


158  SOPHIA 

dames  like  Lady  Walpole  and  Lady  Townshend  would  pro- 
claim her;  and  his  heart  was  full  of  pity  for  her.  He  knew 
her  innocent;  he  had  the  word  of  that  other  innocent,  Tom, 
for  it;  but  who  would  believe  it?  The  Northeys  had  cast 
her  off;  perhaps  when  they  knew  all  they  would  still  cast 
her  oft'.  Her  brother,  her  only  witness,  had  taken  himself 
away,  and  was  a  boy  at  most.  Had  he  been  older,  he  might 
have  given  the  gossips  the  lie  and  forced  the  world  to  be- 
lieve him,  at  the  point  of  the  small  sword.  As  it  was  she 
had  no  one.  Her  aunt's  misfortune  was  being  repeated  in 
a  later  generation.     The  penalty  must  be  the  same. 

Must  it?  In  the  silence  Sir  Hervey  heard  her  sigh,  and 
his  heart  beat  quickly.  Was  there  no  way  to  save  her?  Yes, 
there  was  one.  He  saw  it,  and  with  the  coolness  of  the  old 
gamester  he  took  it. 

"What  are  you  to  do?"  he  repeated  thoughtfully;  and 
turning,  he  sat  down,  and  looked  at  her  across  the  table,  his 
face,  voice,  manner  all  business-like.  "  Well,  it  depends, 
child.  I  suppose  you  have  no  feeling  left  for — for  that  per- 
son? " 

She  shook  her  head,  her  face  hidden. 

"  None  at  all  ?  "  he  persisted,  toying  with  his  snuff-box, 
while  he  looked  at  her  keenly.  "  Pardon  me,  I  wish  to  have 
this  clear  because — because  it's  important." 

"  I  would  rather  die,"  she  cried  passionately,  "  than  be 
his  wife." 

He  nodded.  "  Good,"  he  said.  "  It  was  to  be  expected. 
Well,  we  must  make  that  clear,  quite  clear,  and — and  I  can 
hardly  think  your  sister  will  still  refuse  to  receive  you." 

Sophia  started;  her  face  flamed.  "  Has  she  said  any- 
thing? "  she  muttered. 

"  Nothing,"  Coke  answered.  "  But  you  left  her  yester- 
day— to  join  him ;  and  you  return  to-day.  Still — still,  child, 
I  think  if  we  make  all  clear  to  her,  quite  clear,  and  to  your 
brother  North ey,  they  will  be  willing  to  overlook  the  matter 
and  find  you  a  home." 


DON  QUIXOTE  159 

She  shuddered.  "  You  speak  very  plainly/'  she  mur- 
mured faintly. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said,  "  you  will  hear  plainer  things  from  her. 
But/'  he  continued,  speaking  slowly  now,  and  in  a  different 
tone,  "  there  is  another  way,  child,  if  you  are  willing  to  take 
it.  One  other  way.  That  way  you  need  not  see  her  unless 
you  choose,  you  need  see  none  of  them,  you  need  hear  no 
plain  truths.  That  way  you  may  laugh  at  them,  and  what 
they  say  will  be  no  concern  of  yours,  nor  need  trouble  you. 
But  'tisn't  to  be  supposed  that  with  all  this  you  will  take 
it." 

"You  mean  I  may  go  to  Chalkhill?"  she  cried,  rising 
impetuously.  "  I  will,  I  will  go  gladly,  I  will  go  thank- 
fully!    I  will  indeed! " 

"  No,"  he  said,  rising  also,  so  that  only  the  table  stood 
between  them.  "  I  did  not  mean  that.  There  is  still  an- 
other way.  But  you  are  young,  child,  and  it  isn't  to  be 
supposed  that  you  will  take  it." 

"  Young!  "  she  exclaimed  in  bitter  self -contempt.  And 
then,  "  What  way  is  it?  "  she  asked.  "  And  why  should  I 
not  take  it,  take  it  gladly  if  I  can  escape — all  that?  " 

"  Because — I  am  not  very  young,"  he  said  grimly. 

"You?"  she  exclaimed  in  astonishment.  And  then,  as 
her  eyes  met  his  across  the  table,  the  colour  rose  in  her 
cheeks.  She  began  to  understand;  and  she  began  to  trem- 
ble. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  bluntly,  "  I.  It  shocks  you,  does  it?  But, 
courage,  child;  you  understand  a  little,  you  do  not  under- 
stand all.  Suppose  for  a  moment  that  you  return  to  Ar- 
lington Street  to-day  as  Lady  Coke;  the  demands  of  the 
most  exacting  will  be  satisfied.  Lady  Harrington  herself 
will  have  nothing  to  say.  You  left  yesterday,  you  return 
to-day — my  wife.  Those  who  have  borne  my  mother's  name 
have  been  wont  to  meet  with  respect;  and,  I  doubt  not,  will 
continue  to  meet  with  it." 


160  SOPHIA 

"  And  you — would  do  that?  "  she  cried  aghast. 

"  I  would." 

"  You  would  marry  me?  " 

"  I  would." 

"After  all  that  has  passed?    Here?     To-day?" 

"  Here,  to-day." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent.  Then,  "  And  you  imagine 
I  could  consent?  "  she  cried.  "  You  imagine  I  could  do 
that?  Never!  Never!  I  think  you  good,  I  think  you 
noble,  I  thank  you  for  your  offer,  Sir  Hervey;  I  believe  it 
to  be  one  the  world  would  deem  you  mad  to  make,  and  me 
mad  to  refuse!  But,"  and  suddenly  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  as  if  his  eyes  burned  her,  "  from  what  a 
height  you  must  look  down  on  me." 

"  I  look  down?  "  he  said  lamely.  "  Not  at  all.  I  don't 
understand  you." 

"  You  do  not  understand?  "  she  cried,  dropping  her  hands 
and  meeting  his  eyes  as  suddenly  as  she  had  avoided  them. 
"  You  think  it  possible,  then,  that  I,  who  yesterday  left  my 
home,  poor  fool  that  I  was,  to  marry  one  man,  can  give 
myself  a  few  hours  later  to  another  man  ?  You  think  I  hold 
love  so  light  a  thing  I  can  take  it  and  give  it  again  as  I  take 
or  give  a  kerchief  or  a  riband?  You  think  I  put  so  small 
a  price  on  myself — and  on  you?  Oh,  no,  no,  I  do  not.  I 
see,  if  you  do  not,  or  will  not,  that  your  offer,  noble,  gener- 
ous, magnanimous  as  it  is,  is  the  sharpest  taunt  of  all  that 
you  have  it  in  your  power  to  fling  at  me." 

"  That,"  Sir  Hervey  said,  placidly,  "  is  because  you  don't 
understand." 

"  It  is  impossible!  "  she  repeated.     "  It  is  impossible!  " 

"  What  you  have  in  your  mind  may  be  impossible,"  he 
retorted;  "but  not  what  I  have  in  mine.  I  should  have 
thought,  child,  that  on  your  side,  also,  you  had  had  enough 
of  romance." 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 


DON   QUIXOTE  161 

"  While  I,"  lie  continued,  raising  his  eyebrows,  "  have 
outgrown  it.  There  is  no  question,  at  leasts  in  my  offer 
there  was  no  question,  of  love.  For  one  thing  it  is  out  of 
fashion,  my  dear;  for  another,  at  the  age  I  have  reached, 
not  quite  the  age  of  Methuselah,  perhaps,"  with  a  smile, 
"  but  an  age,  as  you  once  reminded  me,  at  which  I  might 
be  your  father,  I  need  only  a  lady  to  sit  at  the  head  of  my 
table,  to  see  that  the  maids  don't  rob  me,  or  burn  the  Hall, 
and  to  show  a  pretty  face  to  my  guests  when  they  come  from 
town.  My  wife  will  have  her  own  wing  of  the  house,  I 
mine;  we  need  meet  only  at  meals.  To  the  world  we  shall 
be  husband  and  wife;  to  one  another,  I  hope,  good  friends. 
Of  course,"  Sir Hervey continued, with  a  slight  yawn,"  there 
was  a  time  when  I  should  not  have  thought  this  an  ideal 
marriage;  when  I  might  have  looked  for  more.  Nor  should 
I  then  have — you  might  almost  call  it — insulted  you,  ma 
cliere,  by  proposing  it.  But  I  am  old  enough  to  be  content 
with  it;  and  you  are  in  an  awkward  position  from  which 
my  name  may  extricate  you;  while  you  have  probably  had 
enough  of  what  children  call  love.  So,  in  fine,  what  do 
you  say?  " 

After  a  long  pause,  "  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice,  "  that  we  should  be  only — friends  ?  " 

"  Precisely,"  he  said.  "  That  is  just  what  I  do  mean. 
And  nothing  more." 

"  But  have  you  considered,"  she  asked,  her  tone  still  low, 
her  voice  trembling  with  agitation.  "  Have  you  thought 
of — of  yourself?  Why  should  you  be  sacrificed  to  save  me 
from  the  punishment  of  my  folly?  Why  should  you  do  out 
of  pity  what  you  may  repent  all  your  life?  Oh,  it  cannot, 
it  cannot  be! "  she  continued  more  rapidly  and  with  grow- 
ing excitement.  "  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you  from  my  heart, 
Sir  Hervey,  I  believe  you  mean  it  generously,  nobly, 
but " 

"Let  ns  consider  the  question — without  fudge!  "  he  re- 
11 


162  SOPHIA 

torted,  stolidly  forestalling  her.  "  Pity  has  little  to  do  with 
it.  Your  folly,  child,  has  much;  because  apart  from  that  I 
should  not  have  made  the  suggestion.  For  the  rest,  put  me 
out  of  the  question.  The  point  is,  will  it  suit  you?  Of 
course  you  might  wish  to  marry  some  one  else.  You  might 
wish  to  marry  in  fact  and  not  in  name " 

"  Oh,  no,  no!  "  she  cried,  shuddering;  and,  shaken  by  the 
cruel  awakening  through  which  she  had  gone,  she  fancied 
that  she  spoke  the  truth. 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite,  quite  sure." 

"  Then  I  think  it  lies  between  Chalkhill  and  Coke  Hall," 
he  said,  cheerfully.  "  Read  that,  child."  And  drawing  from 
his  pocket  the  letter  in  which  Mr.  Northey  had  announced 
her  flight,  he  laid  it  before  her.  "  If  I  thought  you  were  re- 
turning to  your  sister  I  would  not  show  it  to  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, watching  her  as  she  read.  And  then,  after  an  in- 
terval, "  Well,  shall  it  be  Coke  Hall?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  shivering  under  the  cruel,  heartless 
phrases  of  the  letter  as  under  a  douche  of  cold  water.  "  If 
you  really  are  in  earnest,  if  you  mean  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  And  you  will  be  satisfied  with — that?  "  she  murmured, 
averting  her  eyes.     "  With  my  friendship?  " 

"  I  will,"  he  answered.     "  You  have  my  word  for  it." 

"  Then,  I  thank  you,"  she  muttered  faintly. 

And  that  was  all,  absolutely  all.  He  opened  the  door, 
and  in  her  sacque  and  Lady  Betty's  Tuscan,  as  she  stood 
— for  she  had  no  change  to  make — she  passed  down  the 
stairs  before  him,  and  walked  beside  him  through  the  rain 
across  a  corner  of  Shepherd's  Market.  Thence  they  passed 
along  Curzon  Street  in  the  direction  of  the  little  chapel  with 
the  country  church  porch — over  against  Mayfair  Chapel, 
and  conveniently  near  the  Hercules  Pillars — in  which  the 
Rev.  Alexander  Keith  held  himself  ready  to  marry  all  com- 
ers, at  all  hours,  without  notice  or  licence. 


DON    QUIXOTE  163 

It  was  the  common  dinner  time,  and  the  streets  were 
quiet;  they  met  no  one  whom  they  knew.  Sophia,  dazed 
and  shaken,  had  scarcely  power  to  think;  she  walked  beside 
him  mechanically,  as  in  a  dream,  and  could  never  remember 
in  after  days  the  way  she  went  to  be  married,  or  whether 
she  travelled  the  route  on  foot  or  in  a  chair.  The  famous 
Dr.  Keith,  baulked  of  one  couple  and  one  guinea — for  that 
was  his  fee,  and  it  included  the  clerk  and  a  stamped  certifi- 
cate— welcomed  the  pair  with  effusion.  Accustomed  to 
unite  at  one  hour  a  peer  of  the  realm  to  a  reigning  toast, 
at  another  an  apprentice  to  his  master's  daughter,  he  be- 
trayed no  surprise  even  when  he  recognised  Sir  Hervey 
Coke;  but  at  once  he  led  the  way  to  the  chapel,  set  the 
kneelers,  called  the  witnesses,  and  did  his  part.  He  won- 
dered a  little,  it  is  true,  when  he  noticed  Sophia's  pallor  and 
strange  dress;  but  the  reasons  people  had  for  marrying  were 
nothing  to  him;  the  fee  was  everything,  and  in  ten  minutes 
the  tie  was  tied. 

Then  only,  as  they  stood  waiting  in  the  parlour  while  the 
certificate  was  being  written,  fear  seized  her,  and  a  great 
horror,  and  she  knew  what  she  had  done.  She  turned  to 
Sir  Hervey  and  held  out  her  shaking  hands  to  him,  her  face 
white  and  piteous.  "  You  will  be  good  to  me?  "  she  cried. 
"  You  will  be  good  to  me?     You  will  keep  your  word?  " 

"  While  I  live,"  he  said  quietly.     "  Why  not,  child?  " 

But,  calmly  as  he  spoke,  his  face,  as  they  went  out  to- 
gether, wore  the  look  it  wore  at  White's  when  he  played 
deep;  when,  round  the  shaded  candles,  oaks,  noted  in  Domes- 
day, crashed  down,  and  long-descended  halls  shook,  and  the 
honour  of  great  names  hung  on  the  turn  of  a  die.  For,  deep 
as  he  had  played,  much  as  he  had  risked,  even  to  his  home, 
even  to  his  line,  he  had  made  to-day  the  maddest  bet  of  all. 
And  he  knew  it. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   WELCOME    HOME 

"  Your  Grace  is  very  good  to  call,"  Mrs.  Northey  said, 
working  her  fan  with  a  violence  that  betrayed  something 
of  the  restraint  which  she  was  putting  on  her  feelings. 
"  But,  of  course,  the  mischief  is  done  now,  the  girl  is  gone, 
and " 

"  I  know,  my  dear,  I  know,"  the  duchess  answered  sooth- 
ingly. "  Believe  me,  I  am  almost  as  sorry  as  if  she  were  one 
of  my  own  daughters." 

"  La,  for  the  matter  of  that,  it  may  be  yet!  "  Mrs.  Northey 
answered,  unable  to  behave  herself  longer.  "  Begging  your 
Grace's  pardon.  Of  course,  I  hope  not,"  she  continued 
sourly,  "  but,  indeed,  and  in  truth,  young  ladies,  who  show 
the  road  are  very  apt  to  follow  it  themselves." 

"  Indeed,  I  fear  that  is  so;  too  often,"  her  Grace  answered 
patiently.  "  Too  often! "  She  had  come  prepared  to  eat 
humble  pie,  and  was  not  going  to  refuse  the  dish. 

"  I  hope,  at  any  rate,  that  the  young  lady  will  take  the 
lesson  to  heart!  "  Mrs.  Northey  continued,  with  a  venomous 
glance  at  Lady  Betty;  who,  much  subdued,  sat  half-sullen 
and  half-frightened  on  a  stool  beside  and  a  little  behind 
her  mother.    "  I  hope  so  for  her  own  sake." 

"  It  is  for  that  reason  I  brought  her,"  the  duchess  said 
with  dignity.  "  She  has  behaved  naughtily,  very  naughtily. 
His  Grace  is  so  angry  that  he  will  not  see  her.  To-morrow 
she  goes  into  the  country,  where  she  will  return  to  the 
schoolroom  until  we  leave  town.    I  hope  that  that  and  the 

164 


THE   WELCOME  HOME  165 

scandal  she  has  brought  upon  us  may  teach  her  to  be  more 
discreet  in  future." 

"  And  more  steady!  I  trust  it  may/'  Mrs.  Northey  said, 
biting  her  lip  and  looking  daggers  at  the  culprit.  "lam 
sure  she  has  done  mischief  enough.  But  it  is  easier  to  do 
than  to  undo,  as  she  would  find  to  her  sorrow  if  it  were  her 
own  case." 

"  Very  true!  Very  true,  indeed!  Do  you  hear,  miss?  " 
the  duchess  asked,  turning  and  sharply  addressing  her 
daughter. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  Lady  Betty  whispered  meekly.  Quick 
of  fence  as  she  was  with  men,  or  with  girls  of  her  own  age, 
she  knew  better  than  to  contradict  her  mother. 

"  Go,  and  sit  in  the  window,  then.  No,  miss,  with  your 
back  to  it.  And  now,"  the  duchess  continued,  when  Lady 
Betty  had  withdrawn  out  of  earshot,  "  tell  me  what  you 
wish  to  be  known,  my  dear.  Anything  I  can  do  for  the 
foolish  child — she  is  very  young,  you  know — I  will  do. 
And,  if  I  make  the  best  of  it,  I  have  friends,  and  they  will 
also  make  the  best  of  it." 

But  Mrs.  Northey's  face  was  hard  as  stone.  "  There  is 
no  best  to  it,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  but  surely  in  your  sister's  interest?  "  the  duchess 
expostulated. 

"  Your  Grace  was  misinformed.  I  have  no  sister,"  Mrs. 
Northey  replied,  her  voice  a  trifle  high,  and  her  thin  nostrils 
more  pinched  than  usual.  "  From  the  moment  Miss  Mait- 
land  left  this  house  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  scandal  on  my 
husband's  name,  she  ceased  to  be  my  sister.  Lord  Northey 
has  claims  upon  us.    We  acknowledge  them." 

The  duchess  stared,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  My  husband  has  claims  upon  me,  I  acknowledge  them," 
Mrs.  Northey  continued  with  majesty. 

The  duchess  still  stared;  her  manner  betrayed  that  she 
was  startled. 


166  SOPHIA 

"  Well,  of  course,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  is  what  we  all 
wish  other  people  to  do  in  these  cases;  for  the  sake  of  ex- 
ample, you  know,  and  to  warn  the — the  young.  But,  dear 
me,"  rubbing  her  nose  reflectively  with  the  corner  of  her 
snuff-box,  "  it's  very  sad!  I  don't  know,  I  really  don't  know 
that  I  should  have  the  courage  to  do  it — in  Betty's  case  now. 
His  Grace  would — would  expect  it,  of  course.  But  really  I 
don't  know!  " 

"  Your  Grace  is  the  best  judge  in  your  own  case,"  Mrs. 
Northey  said,  her  breath  coming  a  little  quickly.  "  For 
our  part,"  she  added,  looking  upward  with  an  air  of  self- 
denial,  "  Mr.  Northey  and  I  have  determined  to  give  no 
sanction  to  a  connection  so  discreditable!  " 

The  duchess  had  a  vision  of  her  own  spoiled  daughter 
laid  ill  in  a  six-shilling  lodging,  of  a  mother  stealing  to  her 
under  cover  of  darkness,  and  in  his  Grace's  teeth;  of  a  tiny 
baby  the  image  of  Betty  at  that  age.  And  she  clutched  her 
snuff-box  tightly,  "  I  suppose  the  man  is — is  impossible?  " 
she  said  impulsively. 

"  He  is  quite  impossible." 

"  Mr.  Northey  has  not  seen  him?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  Mrs.  Northey  exclaimed,  with  a  virtu- 
ous shudder. 

"  But  if  she — if  she  were  brought  to  see  what  she  has 
done  in  its  true  light?"  the  duchess  asked  weakly;  her 
motherly  instinct  still  impelling  her  to  fight  the  young 
thing's  battle. 

"  Not  even  then,"  Mrs.  Northey  replied  with  Boman  firm- 
ness. "  Under  no  circumstances,  no  circumstances  what- 
ever, could  Mr.  Northey  and  I  countenance  conduct  such  as 
hers." 

"  You  are  sure  that  there's — there's  no  mistake,  my 
dear?  " 

"Not  a  shadow  of  a  mistake!"  madam  answered  with 
acrimony.    "  We  have  traced  her  to  the  man's  lodging.    She 


THE   WELCOME   HOME  167 

reached  it  after  dark,  and  under — under  the  most  disgrace- 
ful circumstances." 

Mrs.  Northey  referred  to  the  arrest  by  bailiffs,  the  news 
of  which  had  reached  Arlington  Street  through  Lane  the 
mercer.  But  the  duchess  took  her  to  mean  something  quite 
different;  and  her  Grace  was  shocked. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  horror;  and  looking 
instinctively  at  her  daughter,  she  wished  that  Lady  Betty 
had  not  seen  so  much  of  the  girl,  wished  still  more  fervently 
that  she  had  not  mixed  herself  up  with  her  flight.  "  I  am 
infinitely  sorry  to  hear  it,"  she  said.  "  Infinitely  sorry!  I 
confess  I  did  not  think  her  that  kind  of  girl.  My  dear,  you 
have  indeed  my  sympathy." 

Mrs.  Northey,  though  she  knew  quite  well  what  the 
duchess  was  thinking,  shook  her  head  as  if  she  could  add 
much  more,  but  would  not;  and  the  duchess,  her  apologies 
made,  rose  to  take  leave;  resolved  to  give  her  daughter  such 
a  wigging  by  the  way  as  that  young  lady  had  never  experi- 
enced. But  while  they  stood  in  the  act  of  making  their 
adieux,  Mr.  Northey  entered;  and  his  dolorous  head  shak- 
ing, which  would  have  done  credit  to  a  father's  funeral,  de- 
tained her  so  long,  that  she  was  still  where  he  found  her, 
when  an 'exclamation  from  Lady  Betty,  who  had  profited 
by  her  mother's  engrossment  to  look  out  of  the  window, 
startled  the  party. 

"  Oh,  la,  ma'am,  here  she  is! "  the  girl  cried.  "  I  vow 
and  declare  she  is!  " 

"Betty!"  her  Grace  cried  sharply.  "Kemember  your- 
self.   What  do  you  mean?    Come,  we  must  be  going." 

"  But,  ma'am,  she's  at  the  door,"  Lady  Betty  replied 
with  a  giggle.  And  turning  and  thrusting  her  muff  into 
her  mouth — as  one  well  understanding  the  crisis — she 
looked  over  it  at  the  party,  her  eyes  bright  with  mischief. 

Mrs.  Northey's  face  turned  quite  white.  "  If  this — if 
your  daughter  means  that  the  misguided  girl  is  returning 
here,"  she  cried,  "  I  will  not  have  it." 


168  SOPHIA 

"It  is  not  to  be  thought  of! "  Mr.  Northey  chimed  in. 
"  She  would  not  have  the  audacity,"  he  added  more 
pompously,  "  after  her  behaviour."  And  he  was  moving 
to  the  window — while  the  kind-hearted  duchess  wished 
herself  anywhere  else — when  the  door  opened,  and  the  ser- 
vant announced,  "  Sir  Hervey  Coke !  " 

The  duchess  gave  vent  to  a  sigh  of  relief,  while  the 
Northeys  looked  daggers  at  Lady  Betty,  the  author  of  the 
false  alarm.  Meantime  Coke  advanced,  his  hat  under  his 
arm.  "  I  am  really  no  more  than  an  ambassador,"  he  said 
gaily.  "  My  principal  is  downstairs  waiting  leave  to  as- 
cend. Duchess,  your  humble  servant!  Lady  Betty,  yours 
— you  grow  prettier  every  day.  Mrs.  Northey,  I  have  good 
news  for  you.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  you  were  misin- 
formed as  to  the  object  of  your  sister's  departure  from  the 
house — about  which  you  wrote  to  me." 

"  Misinformed!  "  Mrs.  Northey  exclaimed  with  a  freezing 
look.    "  I  was  misinformed,  sir?  " 

"  Completely,  at  the  time  you  wrote  to  me,"  Sir  Hervey 
answered,  smiling  on  the  party.  "  As  you  will  acknowledge 
in  one  moment." 

"  On  whose  authority,  pray?  "  with  a  sniff. 

"  On  mine,"  Coke  replied.  "  'Twas  an  odd  coincidence 
that  you  wrote  to  me,  of  all  people." 

"  Why,  sir,  pray?  " 

"  Because "  he  began;  and  there  he  broke  off  and 

turned  to  the  duchess,  who  had  made  a  movement  as  if 
she  would  withdraw.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  your  Grace 
will  not  go.    The  matter  is  not  private." 

"  Private  ?  "  Mrs.  Northey  cried  shrilly — she  could  con- 
trol her  feelings  no  longer.  "  The  hussy  has  taken  good 
care  it  shall  not  be  that!  Private,  indeed?  It  is  not  her 
fault  if  there  is  a  man  in  the  town  who  is  ignorant  of  her 
disgrace! " 

"  Nay,  ma'am,  softly,  if  you  please,"  Sir  Hervey  inter- 


THE  WELCOME   HOME  109 

posed,  with  the  least  touch  of  sternness  in  his  tone.    "  You 
go  too  far." 

Mrs.  Northey  glared  at  him;  she  was  pale  with  anger. 
"What?"  she  cried.  "Hoity-toity!  do  you  think  I  shall 
not  say  what  I  like  about  my  own  sister?  " 

"  But  not  about  my  wife!  "  he  answered  firmly. 

She  stepped  back  as  if  he  had  aimed  a  blow  at  her,  so 
great  was  her  surprise.  "What?"  she  shrieked.  "Your 
wife?  "  While  the  others  looked  at  him,  thunderstruck; 
and  Lady  Betty,  who,  on  the  fringe  of  the  group,  was  taking 
in  all  with  childish  dilated  eyes,  uttered  a  scream  of  delight. 

"  Your  wife?  "  Mr.  Northey  gasped. 

"  Precisely,"  Coke  answered.    "  My  wife." 

But  Mrs.  Northey  could  not,  would  not,  believe  it.  She 
thought  that  he  was  lending  himself  to  some  cunning 
scheme;  some  plan  for  bringing  about  a  reconciliation. 
"  Your  wife?  "  she  repeated.  "  Do  you  mean  that  Sophia, 
my  sister " 

"  Preferred  a  quiet  wedding  a  deux,"  he  answered,  help- 
ing himself  to  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  smiling  slightly,  as  at 
the  recollection.  "  Your  Grace  will  understand,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  with  easy  politeness  to  the  duchess,  "  how  it 
amused  me  to  read  Mrs.  JSTorthey's  letter  under  such  cir- 
cumstances." 

But  Mrs.  Northey  was  furious.  "  If  this  be  true,"  she 
said  hoarsely,  "but  I  do  not  believe  it  is,  why  did  you 
doit?  Tell  me  that?  Until  I  know  that  I  shall  not  believe 
it!" 

Sir  Hervey  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Mr.  Northey  will 
believe  it,  I  am  sure,"  he  said,  with  a  look  in  that  gentle- 
man's direction.  "  For  the  rest,  ma'am,  it  was  rather  Lady 
Coke's  doing  than  mine.  She  heard  that  her  brother  was 
about  to  make  a  ruinous  marriage,  and  discovered  that  he 
was  actually  in  the  company  and  under  the  influence  of  the 
Irishman,  Hawkesworth,  whom  you  know.     There  were 


170  SOPHIA 

those  who  should  more  properly  have  made  the  effort  to 
save  him,  but  these  failed  him;  and  the  result  of  it  was, 
thanks  to  her,  he  was  saved.  Thanks  to  her,  and  to  her 
only,"  Sir  Hervey  repeated  with  a  look,  beneath  which  Mr. 
Northey  quailed,  and  his  wife  turned  green  with  rage, 
"  since,  as  I  said,  those  who  should  have  interfered  did  not. 
But  this  effected,  and  Keith,  who  should  have  married  her 
brother,  being  in  attendance — well,  we  thought  it  better  to 
avail  ourselves  of  his  services.  'Twould  have  been  a  pity, 
your  Grace,  to  lose  a  guinea,"  Coke  added,  his  eyes  twin- 
kling, as  he  turned  to  the  duchess.  "  It  was  the  best  in- 
stance I've  ever  known  of  '  a  guinea  in  time  saves  ninety! '  " 

The  duchess  laughed  heartily.  "  'Twas  cheap  at  any  rate, 
Sir  Hervey,"  she  said.  "  I  am  sure  for  my  part  I  congratu- 
late you." 

"  I  don't! "  Mrs.  Northey  cried,  before  he  could  answer. 
"She  has  behaved  abominably!  Abominably!"  she  re- 
peated, her  voice  quivering  with  spite.  For,  strange  human 
nature!  here  was  the  match  made,  on  making  which  she  had 
set  her  heart;  yet  so  far  was  she  from  being  pleased,  or  even 
satisfied,  she  could  have  cried  with  mortification.  "  She 
has  behaved  infamously! " 

"  Tut,  tut!  "  Sir  Hervey  cried. 

But  the  angry  woman  was  not  to  be  silenced.  "  I  shall 
say  it!  "  she  persisted.    "  I  think  it,  and  I  shall  say  it." 

"  Of  Miss  Maitland,  as  often  as  you  please,"  he  retorted, 
bowing.  "  Of  Lady  Coke  only  at  your  husband's  peril.  Of 
course,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  receive  her,  ma'am,  that  is  an- 
other matter." 

But  on  this  Mr.  Northey  interposed.  "  No,  no,"  he  cried, 
fussily.  "  Mrs.  Northey  is  vexed,  if  I  may  say  so,  not  un- 
naturally vexed  by  the  lack  of  confidence  in  her,  which 
Sophia  has  shown.  But  that — that  is  quite  another  thing 
from — from  disowning  her.  No,  no,  let  me  be  the  first  to 
wish  you  happiness,  Coke!  "    And  with  an  awkward  essay  at 


THE   WELCOME  HOME  171 

heartiness,  and  an  automaton-like  grin,  he  shook  Sir 
Hervey  by  the  hand.  "  I'll  fetch  her  up,"  he  continued, 
"I'll  fetch  her  up!  My  dear,  ahem!  Congratulate  Sir 
Hervey.  It  is  what  we  wanted  from  the  first,  and  though  it 
has  not  come  about  quite  as  we  expected,  nothing  could 
give  us  greater  pleasure.  It's  an  alliance  welcome  in  every 
respect.    Yes,  yes,  I'll  bring  her  up." 

He  hurried  away,  while  the  duchess  hastened  to  add  a  few 
words  of  further  congratulation,  and  Mrs.  Northey  stood 
silent  and  waiting,  her  face  now  red,  now  pale.  She  had 
every  reason  to  be  satisfied,  for  except  in  the  matter  of  Tom 
— and  there  Sophia  had  thwarted  her  selfish  plans — all  had 
turned  out  as  she  wished.  But  not  through  her,  there  was 
the  rub!  On  the  contrary,  she  had  been  duped,  she  felt  it. 
She  had  been  tricked  into  betraying  how  little  heart  she 
had,  how  little  affection  for  her  sister;  and  bitterly  she 
resented  the  exposure. 

But  even  her  face  cleared  in  a  degree  when  Sophia  ap- 
peared. As  the  girl  moved  forward  on  Sir  Hervey's  arm — 
who  went  gallantly  to  the  door  to  meet  her — so  far  from 
exhibiting  the  blushing  pride  of  a  woman  vain  of  her  con- 
quest, glorying  in  the  trick  she  had  played  the  world,  she 
showed  but  the  timid,  frightened  face  of  a  shrinking  child. 
Her  eyes  sought  the  floor,  nervously;  her  bearing  was  the 
farthest  removed  from  exultation  it  was  possible  to  con- 
ceive. So  different,  indeed,  was  she  from  all  they  had 
looked  to  see  in  the  new  Lady  Coke,  the  heroine  of  this  odd 
romance,  that  even  Mrs.  Northey  found  the  cold  recon- 
ciliation on  which  her  husband  was  bent  more  feasible,  the 
frigid  kiss  more  possible  than  she  had  thought;  while  to  the 
duchess  the  bride's  aspect  seemed  so  unnatural,  that  she 
drew  Sir  Hervey  aside  and  questioned  him  keenly. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  her?  "  she  said.  "  That  a  run- 
away bride?  Why,  if  she  had  been  dragged  to  the  altar  and 
sold  to  a  Jew  broker  she  could  hardly  look  worse,  or  more 
down-hearted!     Sho,  man,  what  is  it?" 


172  SOPHIA 

"  She's  troubled  about  her  brother,"  Coke  explained  elab- 
orately. "  She's  saved  him  from  a  wretched  match,  but  he's 
taken  himself  off,  and  we  don't  know  where  to  look  for 
him." 

The  good-natured  duchess  struck  him  on  the  shoulder 
with  her  fan.  "Fudge!"  she  cried.  "Her  brother?  I 
don't  believe  it." 

"  My  dear  duchess,"  Coke  remonstrated.  "  Half  a  dozen 
witnesses  are  prepared  to  swear  to  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  any  the  more  for  that!  " 

"  You  think  she's  unhappy?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Well,"  Sir  Hervey  answered,  and  for  a  moment  a  gleam 
which  the  duchess  could  not  interpret,  shone  in  his  eyes, 
"  wait  six  months!  If  she  is  not  happy  then — I  mean,"  he 
added,  hastily  correcting  himself,  "  if  she  does  not  look 
happy  then,  I  have  made  a  mistake." 

The  duchess  stared.    "  Or  she?  " 

"  No,  I,"  he  answered,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  I  only, 
duchess." 

She  nodded,  understanding  somewhat;  not  all.  "  Oh!  " 
she  said;  and  looked  him  over,  considering  what  kind  of  a 
lover  she  would  have  thought  him  in  the  old  days  when  all 
men  presented  themselves  in  that  capacity,  and  were  meas- 
ured by  maiden  eyes.  She  found  him  satisfactory.  "  What 
are  your  plans?  "  she  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  Coke  Hall  to-night,  to  give  the  neces- 
sary orders.    There  are  changes  to  be  made." 

"  Quick  work!  "  she  said  smiling.    "  Leaving  her?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  not  killing  her  with  kindness  then,  my 
friend  ?  " 

"  She  will  follow  in  two  or  three  days." 

"In  the  meantime — does  she  stay  here?"  she  asked; 
with  a  glance  round  the  room  that  said  much. 


THE  WELCOME  HOME  173 

"  Well,  no,"  Sir  Hervey  answered  slowly,  his  face  grow- 
ing hard.  "  I  don't  quite  know — it  has  all  been  very  sud- 
den, you  know." 

"  I'll  take  her  if  you  like,"  the  duchess  said  impulsively. 

Sir  Hervey's  face  grew  pink.  "  You  dear,  good,  great 
'lady!  "  he  said.    "  Will  you  do  that?  " 

"  For  you,  I  will,"  she  said,  "  if  it  will  help  you?  " 

"  Will  it  not,"  he  cried;  and,  stooping  over  her  hand, 
he  kissed  it  after  the  fashion  of  the  day;  but  a  little  more 
warmly — we  were  going  to  say,  a  little  more  warmly  than 
the  duke  would  have  approved. 

While  they  talked,  Mrs.  Northey  had  left  the  room,  to 
take  order  for  "  my  lady's "  packing;  and  Mr.  Northey, 
who  was  dying  for  a  word  with  her  on  the  astonishing  event, 
had  followed,  after  murmuring  an  apology  and  an  indistinct 
word  about  a  carriage.  Sophia  was  thus  left  tete-a-tete  with 
the  one  person  in  the  room  who  had  not  approached  her,  or 
offered  felicitation  or  compliment;  but  who  now,  after  as- 
suring herself  by  a  hurried  glance  that  the  duchess  was  out 
of  hearing,  hastened  to  deliver  her  mind. 

"  Wait  till  you  want  to  elope  again,  miss,"  Lady  Betty 
hissed,  in  a  fierce  whisper.  "And  see  if  I'll  help  you! 
Oh,  you  deceitful  cat,  you!  To  trick  me  with  a  long  story 
of  your  lover  and  your  wrongs,  and  your  dear,  dear  Irish- 
man! And  then  to  come  back  '  my  lady,'  and  we're  all  to 
bow  down  to  you.    Oh,  you  false,  humdrum  creature!  " 

Sophia,  in  spite  of  her  depression,  could  not  refrain  from 
a  smile.  "  My  dear  Lady  Betty,"  she  whispered  gratefully. 
"  I  shall  ever  remember  your  kindness." 

"  Don't  Lady  Betty  me,  miss! "  the  girl  retorted,  thrust- 
ing her  pretty,  eager  face  close  to  the  other's.  "  Do  you 
know  that  I  am  to  go  into  the  country,  ma'am?  and  be  put 
to  school  again,  and  the  blackboard;  and  lose  the  Eidotto  on 
the  17th,  and  the  frolic  at  the  King's  House  Miss  Ham  had 
arranged — and  all  for  helping  you?    All  for  helping  you, 


174  SOPHIA 

ma'am!  See  if  I  ever  do  a  good-natured  thing  again,  as  long 
as  I  live! " 

"  My  poor  Lady  Betty!    I  am  so  sorry!  " 

"  But  that's  not  all,"  the  angry  little  beauty  cried. 
"  Didn't  you  lead  me  to  think,  ma'am — oh  yes,  madam, 
you  are  now,"  with  a  swift  little  curtsey — "  to  think  that 
'twas  all  for  love  and  the  world  lost!  That  'twas  a  dear  de- 
licious elopement,  almost  as  good  as  running  away  myself! 
And  that  all  the  town  would  be  wild  to  hear  of  it,  and  every 
girl  envy  me  for  being  in  it!  Eomance?  And  the  world 
well  lost!  Oh,  you  deceitful  madam!  But  see  if  I  ever 
speak  to  you  again!    That's  all,  my  lady!  " 

Sophia,  with  a  smile  that  trembled  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
was  about  to  crave  her  pardon,  when  the  approach  of  the 
duchess  and  Sir  Hervey  closed  her  mouth.  "  Your  sister 
has  gone  upstairs?  "  her  Grace  said. 

"  Only  to  take  order  for  my  packing,"  Sophia  answered. 

"  I  have  just  been  talking  to  your  husband,"  the  duchess 
continued,  and  smiled  faintly  at  the  hot  blush  that  at  the 
word  rose  to  Sophia's  brow.  "  If  you  are  willing,  my  dear, 
you  shall  keep  Lady  Betty  company  until  he  returns." 

"  Eeturns?  "  Sophia  exclaimed. 

"  From  Coke  Hall,"  Sir  Hervey  interposed  glibly. 
"  Whither  I  must  go  to-night,  sweet,  to  give  orders  for  our 
reception.  In  the  meantime  the  duchess  has  most  kindly 
offered  to  take  care  of  you,  and  has  also  promised  that 
when  you  go  into  the  country  Lady  Betty  shall  go  with 
you  and  keep  you  company  until  the  duke  leaves  town." 

The  tears  rose  in  Sophia's  eyes  at  this  double,  this  won- 
derful proof  of  his  thought  for  her;  and  through  her  tears 
her  eyes  thanked  him  though  it  was  only  by  a  swift  glance, 
averted  as  soon  as  perceived.  In  a  tremulous  voice  she 
made  her  acknowledgments  to  the  duchess.  It  was  most 
kind  of  her  Grace.  And  any — any  arrangement  that  Sir 
Hervey  thought  fit  to  make  for  her — would  be  to  her  liking. 


THE   WELCOME   HOME  175 

"  Dear  me,"  the  duchess  said  laughing,  "  a  most  obedi- 
ent wife.  My  dear,  how  long  do  you  think  you  will  play 
the  patient  Grizel?" 

Poor  Sophia  drooped,  blushing  under  the  question,  but 
was  quickly  relieved  by  Lady  Betty.  "  Oh  la! "  the  young 
lady  cried,  "am  I  really,  really,  to  go  with  her?  When 
ma'am?    When?" 

"When  I  choose,"  the  duchess  answered  sharply. 
"That's  enough  for  you.  Thank  your  stars,  and  Sir 
Hervey,  miss,  that  it's  not  back  to  the  schoolroom,  as  it 
was  to  be." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  Lady  Betty  murmured  obediently. 

But  a  little  later,  when  they  were  alone  together  in  her 
room,  she  fell  upon  Sophia,  and  pinched  and  tweaked  her 
in  a  way  that  implied  a  full  pardon.  "  Oh,  you  double- 
faced  madam! "  she  cried.  "You  sly  thing!  But  I'll  be 
even  with  you!  I'll  make  love  to  him  before  your  eyes,  see 
if  I  don't!  After  all  I  like  him  better  than  O'Eourke!  You 
remember: 

"  '  O'Rourke's  noble  fare 
Will  ne'er  be  forgot, 
By  those  who  were  there 
And  those  who  were  not!  ' 

For  Coke,  he's  as  grave  as  grave!  But  he's  a  dear  for  all 
that! " 

"  A  dear!  "  Sophia  repeated,  opening  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  a  dear!  Not  that  you  need  be  proud,  my  lady! 
I'll  soon  have  his  heart  from  you,  see  if  I  don't.  What'll 
you  say  to  that?  " 

But  Lady  Coke,  from  whom  Sir  Hervey  had  parted 
gravely  a  few  minutes  before,  did  not  answer.  She  sat 
silent,  conjuring  up  his  face — in  a  new  light.  She  did  not 
acknowledge  that  he  was  a  dear.  She  felt  the  same  shrink- 
ing from  him,  the  same  fear  of  him,  that  had  depressed  her 


176  SOPHIA 


from  the  moment  she  knew  the  knot  tied,  the  thing  done. 
But  she  began  to  see  him  in  a  new  light.  The  duchess  liked 
him,  and  Lady  Betty  thought  him  a  dear?  Would  Lady 
Betty — even  Lady  Betty  have  taken  him? 


At  that  moment,  in  the  little  house  at  the  end  of  Clarges 
Bow,  three  persons  sat  vowing  vengeance  over  Tom's  wed- 
ding feast.  One  with  the  rage  of  a  gamester  baffled  by  an 
abnormal  run  of  the  cards,  beaten  by  the  devil's  own  luck, 
breathed  naught  but  flames  and  fury,  pistols,  and  nose- 
slitting.  The  second,  who  stormed  and  wept  by  turns, 
broke  things  with  her  hands  and  gnawed  them,  in  futile 
passion,  with  her  strong  white  teeth,  could  have  kissed  him 
for  that  last  word.  The  third,  mulcted  in  purse,  and  un- 
certain on  whom  to  turn,  chattered  impotent,  senile  curses. 
"  I  shall  die  a  beggar! "  he  cried;  and  cursed  his  compan- 
ions. "  I  shall  die  in  a  ditch !  But  I'll  not  die  alone,  I'll 
not  be  the  only  one  to  suffer!  " 

"  By  G d,  I'll  show  you  better  than  that!  "  the  Irish- 
man answered  between  oaths.  "  They  are  three  and  we 
are  three.  Wait!  I'll  have  them  watched  every  minute  of 
the  day,  and  by-and-by  it'll  be  our  turn.  A  little 
money " 

"  Money!  "  old  Grocott  shrieked,  clawing  the  air.  And 
he  got  up  hurriedly,  and  sat  down  again.  "  Always  money! 
More  money!  But  you'll  have  none  of  mine!  Not  a  far- 
thing!   Not  a  farthing  more!  " 

"  Why  not,  fool,  if  it  will  bring  in  a  thousand  per  cent.," 
Hawkesworth  growled.  The  thin  veneer  of  fashion  that 
had  duped  poor  Sophia  was  gone.  With  the  loss  of  the 
venture,  on  which  he  had  staked  his  all,  the  man  stood 
forth  a  plain  unmitigated  ruffian.  "Why  not?"  he  con- 
tinued, bending  his  brows.  "  D'you  think  anything  is  to 
be  done  without  money?  And  I  shall  risk  more  than 
money,  old  skinflint!  " 


THE   WELCOME   HOME  177 

The  woman  looked  at  the  man,  her  eyes  gleaming;  her 
face,  under  the  red  that  splashed  it,  was  livid.  "  What'll 
you  do  ?  "  she  muttered,  "  what'll  you  do  ?  "  She  had  been 
— almost  a  lady.  The  chance  would  never,  never,  never 
recur!  "When  she  thought  of  what  she  had  lost,  and  how 
nearly  she  had  won  it,  she  was  frantic.  "  What'll  you  do?  " 
she  repeated. 

"  Hark,  I  hear  the  sound  of  coaches 
The  hour  of  attack  approaches, 
And  turns  our  lead  to  gold!  " 

Hawkesworth  hummed  for  answer.  "  Gold  is  good,  hut  I'll 
wait  my  opportunity,  and  I'll  have  gold  and — a  pound  of 
flesh!" 

"  Ah!  "  she  said  thirstily.  And  then  to  her  father:  "Do 
you  hear,  old  man  ?    You'll  give  him  what  he  wants." 

"  I'll  not!  "  he  screamed.  "  I  shall  die  a  beggar!  I  shall 
die  in  a  ditch!  I  tell  you  I "  his  voice  suddenly  qua- 
vered off  as  he  met  his  daughter's  eyes.    He  was  silent. 

"  I  think  you  will,"  she  said. 

"  I  think  so,"  the  Irishman  murmured  grimly. 


12 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    FIRST    STAGE 

A  week  later  the  sun  of  a  bright  May  morning  shone  on 
King's  Square,  once  known  as  Monmouth,  now  as  Soho, 
Square.  Before  the  duke's  town  house  on  the  east  side  of 
the  Square — on  the  left  of  the  King's  Statue  which  then, 
and  for  many  years  to  come,  faced  Monmouth  House — a 
travelling  carriage  waited,  attended  by  a  pair  of  mounted 
grooms,  and  watched  at  a  respectful  distance  by  a  half- 
circle  of  idle  loungers.  It  was  in  readiness  to  convey  Lady 
Coke  and  Lady  Betty  Cochrane  into  Sussex.  On  the  steps 
of  the  house  lounged  no  less  a  person  than  the  duke  him- 
self; who,  unlike  his  proud  Grace  of  Petworth,  was  at  no 
pains  to  play  a  part.  On  the  contrary,  he  sunned  himself 
where  he  pleased,  nor  thought  it  beneath  him  to  display  the 
anxiety  on  his  daughter's  account  which  would  have  be- 
come a  meaner  man.  He  knew,  too,  what  he  was  about  in 
the  present  matter;  neither  the  four  sturdy  big-boned 
horses,  tossing  their  tasselled  heads,  nor  the  pair  of  armed 
outriders,  nor  Watkyns,  Sir  Hervey's  valet,  waiting  hat  in 
hand  at  the  door  of  the  chariot,  escaped  his  scrutiny.  He 
had  the  tongue  of  a  buckle  secured  here,  and  a  horse's  hoof 
lifted  there — and  his  Grace  was  right,  there  was  a  stone  in 
it.  He  inquired  if  the  relay  at  Croydon  was  ordered,  he  de- 
manded whether  it  was  certain  that  Sir  Hervey's  horses 
would  meet  them  at  Lewes.  Finally — for  he  knew  that  part 
of  the  country — he  asked  what  was  the  state  of  the  roads 
beyond  Grinstead,  and  whether  the  Ouse  was  out. 

178 


THE  FIRST   STAGE  179 

"  Not  to  hurt,  your  Grace,"  Watkyns  who  had  come  up 
with  the  carriage  answered.  "  The  roads  will  be  good  if 
no  more  rain  falls,  if  your  Grace  pleases." 

"  You  will  make  East  Grinstead  about  five,  my  man?  " 

"  'Tween  four  and  five,  your  Grace,  we  should." 

"  And  Lewes — by  two  to-morrow?  " 

The  servant  was  about  to  answer  when  the  duchess  and 
the  two  young  ladies,  followed  by  Lady  Betty's  woman,  ap- 
peared at  the  duke's  elbow.  The  duchess,  holding  a  fan 
between  her  eyes  and  the  sun,  looked  anxiously  at  the 
horses.  "  I  don't  like  them  to  be  on  the  road  alone,"  she 
said.  "  Coke  should  have  come  for  them.  My  dear,"  she 
continued,  turning  to  Sophia,  "  your  husband  should  have 
come  for  you  instead  of  sending.  I  don't  understand  such 
manners,  and  a  week  married." 

Sophia,  blushing  deeply,  did  not  answer.  She  knew  quite 
well  why  Sir  Hervey  had  not  come,  and  she  was  thankful 
when  Lady  Betty  took  the  word. 

"  Oh  ma'am,"  the  child  cried,  "  I  am  sure  we  shall  do 
well  enough;  'tis  the  charmingest  thing  in  the  world  to  be 
going  a  journey,  and  this  morning  the  most  delicious  of  all 
mornings.  We  are  going  to  drive  all  day,  and  at  night  lie 
at  an  inn,  and  tell  one  another  a  world  of  secrets.  I  declare 
I  could  jump  out  of  my  skin!  I  never  was  so  happy  in 
my  life! " 

"  And  leaving  us!  "  her  Grace  said  in  a  tone  of  reproach. 

Lady  Betty  looked  a  trifle  dashed  at  that,  but  her  father 
pinched  her  ear.  "  Leaving  town,  too,  Bet,"  he  said  good- 
naturedly.     "  That's  more  serious,  isn't  it?  " 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,  I — if  my  mother  wishes  me  to  stay!  " 

"  No,  go,  child,  and  enjoy  yourself,"  the  duchess  an- 
swered kindly.  "  And  I  hope  Lady  Coke  may  put  some 
sense  into  that  feather  brain  of  yours.  My  dear,"  she  con- 
tinued, embracing  Sophia,  "  you'll  take  care  of  her?  " 

"I  will,  I  will  indeed!"  Sophia  cried,  clinging  to  her. 


180  SOPHIA 

"  And  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  ma'am,  for  your  kind- 
ness to  me." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  'tis  nothing,"  her  Grace  said.  "  But  all 
the  same,"  she  added,  her  anxiety  returning,  "I  wish  Sir 
Hervey  were  with  you,  or  you  had  not  those  jewels." 

"  Coke  should  have  thought  of  it,"  the  duke  answered. 
"  But  there,  kiss  Bet,  my  love,  and  tell  her  to  be  a  good 
puss.  The  sooner  they  are  gone,  the  sooner  they  will  be 
there." 

"  You  have  your  cordial,  Betty?  "  the  duchess  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  the  saffron  drops,  and  your  '  Holy  Living  '  ?  Pet- 
titt,"  to  the  woman;  "  you'll  see  her  Ladyship  uses  the  face 
wash  every  morning,  and  wears  her  warm  night-rail.  And 
see  that  the  flowered  chintz  is  aired  before  she  puts  it  on." 

"  Yes,  sure,  your  Grace." 

"  And  I  hope  you'll  come  back  safe,  and  won't  be 
robbed!  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh!  "  the  duke  said.  "  Since  Cook  was  hanged 
last  year — and  he  was  ten  times  out  of  eleven  at  Mimms  and 
Finchley — there  has  been  nothing  done  on  the  Lewes  Eoad. 
And  they  are  too  strong  to  be  stopped  by  one  man.  You 
have  been  reading  Johnson's  Lives,  and  are  frightening 
yourself  for  nothing,  my  dear.  There,  let  them  go,  and 
they'll  be  in  Lewes  two  hours  before  nightfall.  A  good 
journey,  my  lady,  and  my  service  to  Sir  Hervey." 

"  I  should  not  mind  if  it  were  not  for  the  child's  jewels," 
her  Grace  muttered  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Pooh,  the  carriage  might  be  robbed  twenty  times,"  the 
duke  answered,  "  and  they  would  not  be  found — where  they 
are.  Good-bye,  Bet.  Good-bye!  Be  a  good  girl,  and  say 
your  prayers! " 

"  And  mind  you  use  the  almond  wash,"  her  Grace  cried. 

Lady  Betty  cried  "  yes,"  to  everything,  and,  amid  a  fire 


THE  FIRST   STAGE  181 

of  similar  advices,  the  two  were  shut  into  the  chariot.  From 
the  window  Lady  Betty  continued  to  wave  her  handkerchief, 
until,  "Watkyns  and  the  woman  having  taken  their  seats  out- 
side, the  postboys  cracked  their  whips"  and  the  heavy  ve- 
hicle moved  forward.  A  moment,  and  the  house  and  the 
kind  wistful  faces  on  the  steps  disappeared,  the  travellers 
swung  right-handed  into  Sutton  Street,  and,  rolling  briskly 
through  St.  Giles's  and  Holborn,  were  presently  on  London 
Bridge,  at  that  time  the  only  link  connecting  London  and 
Southwark. 

Lady  Betty  was  in  a  humour  that  matched  the  sparkle  of 
the  bright  May  morning.  She  was  leaving  the  delights  of 
town,  but  she  had  a  journey  before  her,  a  thing  exhilarating 
in  youth;  and  at  the  end  of  that  she  had  a  vision  of  lord- 
lings,  knights,  and  country  squires,  waiting  in  troops  to 
be  reduced  to  despair  by  her  charms.  The  dazzling  surface 
of  the  stream,  as  the  tide  running  up  from  the  pool  sparkled 
and  glittered  in  the  sun,  was  not  brighter  than  her  eyes — 
that  now  were  here,  now  there,  now  everywhere.  Now  she 
stuck  her  head  out  of  one  window,  now  out  of  the  other; 
now  she  flashed  a  smile  at  a  passing  apprentice,  and  left  him 
gasping,  now  she  cast  a  flower  at  an  astonished  teamster,  or 
tilted  her  pretty  nose  at  the  odours  that  pervaded  the  Bor- 
ough. The  grooms  rode  more  briskly  for  her  presence,  the 
postboys  looked  grinning  over  their  shoulders;  even  the  gib- 
bet that  marked  the  turn  to  Tooting  failed  to  depress  her 
airy  spirits. 

And  Sophia?  Sophia  sat  fighting  for  contentment.  By 
turns  the  better  and  the  worse  mood  possessed  her.  In  the 
better,  she  thought  with  gratitude  of  her  lot — a  lot  happy 
in  comparison  of  the  fate  which  she  had  so  narrowly  es- 
caped; happy,  even  in  comparison  of  that  fate  which  would 
have  been  hers,  if,  after  escaping  from  Hawkesworth,  she 
had  been  forced  to  return  to  her  sister's  house.  If  it  was 
good-bye  to  love,  if  the  glow  of  passion  could  never  be  hers, 


182  SOPHIA 

she  was  not  alone.  She  had  a  friend  from  whose  kindness 
she  had  all  to  expect  that  any  save  a  lover  could  give;  a  firm 
and  true  friend  whose  generosity  and  thoughtfulness 
touched  her  every  hour,  and  must  have  touched  her  more 
deeply,  but  for  that  other  mood  which  in  its  turn  possessed 
her. 

In  that  mood  she  lived  the  past  again,  she  thirsted  for 
that  which  had  not  been  hers.  She  regretted,  not  her  dear 
Irishman — for  he  had  never  existed  save  in  her  fancy,  and 
she  knew  it  now — but  the  delicious  thrill,  the  warm  emotion 
which  the  thought  of  him,  the  sight  of  him,  the  sound  even 
of  his  voice,  had  been  wont  to  arouse.  In  this  mood  she 
could  not  patiently  give  up  love;  she  could  not  willingly  re- 
sign the  woman's  dream.  In  this  mood  she  cried  out  on 
the  prudence  that,  to  save  her  from  the  talk  of  a  week,  had 
deprived  her  of  love  for  a  life.  She  saw  in  her  husband's 
kindness,  calculation;  in  his  thoughtfulness,  the  wisdom  of 
the  serpent.  She  shook  with  resentment,  and  burnt  with 
shame. 

And  then,  even  while  she  thought  of  him  most  harshly, 
her  conscience  pricked  her,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  in  the 
melting  temper;  while  Lady  Betty  chattered  by  her  side, 
and  town  changed  to  country,  and,  leaving  Brixton  Causey, 
they  rattled  by  the  busy  inns  of  Streatham,  with  the  church 
on  their  right  and  the  hills  rolling  upward  leftwise  to  the 
blue. 

Four  and  a  half  miles  to  Croydon  and  then  dinner. 
"  Now  let  me  see  them,"  Lady  Betty  urged.  "  Do,  that's 
a  dear  creature!     Here  we  are  quite  safe!  " 

Sophia  pleaded  that  it  was  too  near  town.  "Wait  until 
we  are  through  Croydon,"  she  said.  "  They  say,  you  know, 
the  nearer  town,  the  greater  the  danger!  " 

"  Then,  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of  Croydon?  "  Lady  Betty 
cried,  hugging  her.     "You  promise?" 

"  Yes,  I  promise." 


TEE  FIRST   STAGE  183 

"  Oh,  I  know  if  they  were  mine  I  should  be  looking  at 
them  all  day!  "  Lady  Betty  rejoined;  and  then  shrieked  and 
threw  herself  hack  in  the  carriage  as  they  passed  Croydon 
gibbet  that  stood  at  the  ninth  milestone,  opposite  the  turn 
to  Wallington.  The  empty  irons  swaying  in  the  wind  pro- 
vided her  with  shudders  until  the  carriage  drew  up  in  Croy- 
don Street,  where  with  recovered  cheerfulness,  the  ladies 
alighted  and  dined  at  the  Crown,  under  the  eye  and  pro- 
tection of  Watkyns.  After  a  stay  of  an  hour,  they  took  the 
road  again  up  Banstead  Downs,  where  they  walked  a  little 
at  the  steeper  part  of  the  way,  but  presently  outstripping 
the  carriage  above  the  turn  to  Beigate,  grew  frightened  in 
that  solitude,  and  were  glad  to  step  in  again.  So  down  and 
up,  and  down  again  through  the  woods  about  Coulsdon, 
where  the  rabbits  peered  at  them  through  the  bracken,  and 
raising  their  white  scuts,  loped  away  at  leisure  to  their 
burrows. 

"  Now!  "  Lady  Betty  cried,  when  they  were  again  in  the 
full  glare  of  the  afternoon  sun.  "  Now  is  the  time!  There 
is  no  one  within  a  mile  of  us.  The  grooms,"  she  continued, 
after  putting  out  her  head  and  looking  back,  "  are  half  a 
mile  behind." 

Sophia  nodded  reluctantly.  "  You  must  get  up,  then," 
she  said. 

Lady  Betty  did  so,  and  Sophia,  to  whom  the  secret  had 
been  committed  the  day  before,  lifted  the  leather  valance 
that  hung  before  the  seat.  Touching  a  spring  she  drew 
from  the  apparently  solid  woodwork  of  the  seat — which 
was  no  more  than  three  inches  thick,  so  that  a  mail  could 
be  placed  beneath  it — a  shallow  covered  drawer  about 
twenty  inches  wide.  She  held  this  until  Lady  Betty  had 
dropped  the  valance,  and  the  two  could  take  their  seats 
again.  Then  she  inserted  a  tiny  key  which  she  took  from 
her  bodice,  into  a  keyhole  cunningly  placed  at  the  side  of 
the  drawer — so  that  when  the  latter  was  in  its  place  the 


184  SOPHIA 

keyhole  was  invisible.  She  turned  the  key,  but  before  she 
raised  the  lid,  bade  Lady  Betty  look  out  of  the  window- 
again,  and  assure  herself  that  the  grooms  were  at  a  distance. 

"  You  provoking  creature!  "  Lady  Betty  cried.  "  They 
are  where  they  were — a  good  half-mile  behind.  And — 
yes,  one  of  them  has  dismounted,  and  is  doing  something 
to  his  saddle.    Oh!  let  me  look,  I  am  dying  to  see  them!  " 

Sophia  raised  the  lid,  and  her  companion  gasped,  then 
screamed  with  delight.  Over  the  white  Genoa  of  the  jewel 
case  shone,  and  rippled,  and  sparkled  in  rills  of  liquid  fire, 
a  necklace,  tiara,  and  bracelet  of  perfect  stones,  perfectly 
matched.  Lady  Betty  had  expected  much;  her  mother  had 
told  her  that,  at  the  coronation  of  '27,  Lady  Coke's  jewels 
had  taken  the  world  by  storm;  and  that  no  one  under  the 
rank  of  a  peeress  had  worn  any  like  them.  But  reality  ex- 
ceeded imagination;  she  could  not  control  her  delight,  ad- 
miration, envy.  She  hung  over  the  tray,  her  eyes  bright  as 
the  stones  they  reflected,  her  cheeks  catching  the  soft  lustre 
of  the  jewels. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  now  I  know  you  are  married! "  she  cried. 
"  Things  like  these  are  not  for  poor  lambkins!  I  vow  I 
grow  afraid  of  you.  My  Lady  Brook  will  have  nothing  like 
them,  and  couldn't  carry  them  if  she  had!  She'd  sink  under 
them,  the  wee  thing!  And  my  Lady  Carteret  won't  do 
better,  though  she  is  naught  but  airs  and  graces,  and  he's 
fifty-five  if  he's  a  day!  When  you  go  to  the  Drawing-Eoom, 
they'll  die  of  envy.  And  to  think  the  dear  things  lie  under 
that  dingy  valance!  I  declare,  I  wonder  they  don't  shine 
through! " 

"  Sir  Hervey's  father  planned  the  drawer,"  Sophia  ex- 
plained, "  for  the  carriage  he  built  for  his  wife's  foreign 
tour.  And  when  Sir  Hervey  had  a  new  carriage  about  six 
years  ago,  the  drawer  was  repeated  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Once  his  mother  was  stopped  and  robbed  when  she  had  the 
diamonds  with  her,  but  they  were  not  found." 


THE   FIRST   STAGE  185 

"  And  had  you  never  seen  them  until  yesterday?  " 

"  Never." 

"  And  he'd  never  told  you  about  them  until  they  sent 
them  from  the  bank,  with  that  note?  " 

Sophia  sighed  as  she  glanced  at  the  jewels.  "  He  had 
not  mentioned  them,"  she  said. 

Lady  Betty  hugged  her  ecstatically:  "The  dear  de- 
voted man! "  she  cried.  "  I  vow  you  are  the  luckiest 
woman  in  the  world!  There's  not  a  girl  in  town  would 
not  give  her  two  eyes  for  them!  And  mighty  few  would 
not  be  ready  to  sell  themselves  body  and  soul  for  them! 
And  he  sends  them  to  you  with  scarce  a  word,  but  *  Lady 
Coke  from  her  husband! ' — and  where  they  are  to  be  hidden 
to  travel.  I  vow,"  Lady  Betty  continued  gaily,  "  if  I  were 
in  your  shoes,  my  dear,  I  should  jump  out  of  my  skin  with 
joy!    I — why  what's  the  matter,  are  you  ill?  " 

For  Sophia  had  suddenly  burst  into  violent  weeping; 
and  now,  with  the  diamonds  lying  in  her  lap,  was  sobbing 
on  the  other's  shoulder  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  "  If 
you  knew!  "  was  all  she  could  say:    "  If  you  knew!  " 

The  young  girl,  amazed  and  frightened,  patted  her  shoul- 
der, tried  to  soothe  her,  asked  her  again  and  again:  What? 
If  she  only  knew  what? 

"  The  sight  of  them  kills  me! "  Sophia  cried,  struggling 
in  vain  with  her  emotion.  "They  are  not  mine!  I  have 
no — no  right  to  them!  " 

Lady  Betty  raised  her  pretty  eyebrows  in  despair.  "  But 
they  are  yours,"  she  said.  "  Your  husband  has  given  them 
to  you." 

"I  would  rather  he  killed  me! "  Sophia  cried;  her  feel- 
ings, overwrought  for  a  week  past,  finding  sudden  vent. 

Lady  Betty  gasped.  "  Oh!  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand, I  am  afraid.  Doesn't  he  " —  in  an  awestruck  tone — 
"doesn't  he  love  you,  then?" 

"He?"  Sophia  cried  bitterly.  "Oh  yes,  I  suppose  he 
does.    He  pities  me  at  any  rate.    It's  I " 


186  SOPHIA 

"You  don't  love  him?" 

Sophia  shook  her  head. 

The  younger  girl  shivered.  "  That  must  be — horrible/' 
she  whispered. 

Her  tone  was  so  grave  that  Sophia  raised  her  head,  and 
smiled  drearily  through  her  tears.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand yet,"  she  said.  "  It's  only  a  form,  our  marriage.  He 
offered  to  marry  me  to  save  me  from  scandal.  And  I  agreed. 
But  since  he  gave  me  the  jewels  that  were  his  mother's,  I — 
I  am  frightened,  child.  I  know  now  that  I  have  done 
wrong.    I  should  not  have  let  him  persuade  me." 

"  Why  did  you?  "  Lady  Betty  asked  softly. 

Sophia  told  her,  with  all  the  circumstances  of  Hawkes- 
worth's  villainy,  Tom's  infatuation,  her  own  dilemma,  Sir 
Hervey's  offer,  and  the  terms  of  it. 

After  a  brief  silence,  "  It  was  generous,"  Lady  Betty 
said,  her  eyes  shining.  "  I  think  I  should — I  think  I  could 
love  him,  my  Lady  Coke.  And  since  that,  you  have  only 
seen  him  one  day?  " 

"  That  is  all." 

"  And  he  kept  his  word?    I  mean — he  wasn't  silly?  " 

"  No." 

"  He  has  been  kind  too.    There  is  no  denying  that?  " 

"It  is  that  which  is  killing  me!"  Sophia  cried  with 
returning  excitement.  "It  is  his  kindness  kills  me,  girl! 
Cannot  you  understand  that?  " 

Lady  Betty  declined  to  say  she  could.  And  for  quite 
a  long  time  she  was  silent.  She  sat  gazing  from'  the  car- 
riage, her  eyes  busied,  to  all  appearance,  with  the  distant 
view  of  Godstone  Church;  but  a  person  watching  her  closely 
might  have  detected  a  gleam  of  mischief,  a  sudden  flash  of 
amusement  that  leapt  into  them  as  she  looked;  and  that 
could  scarcely  have  had  to  do  with  this  church.  She  seemed 
at  a  loss,  however,  for  matter  of  comfort;  or  she  was  singu- 
larly unfortunate  in  the  choice  of  it.    For  when  she  spoke 


THE   FIRST   STAGE  187 

again  she  could  hit  on  no  better  topic  to  compose  Sophia's 
mind  than  a  long  story,  which  the  naughty  girl  had  no 
right  to  know,  of  Sir  Hervey's  dealings  with  his  old  flames. 
It  is  true,  nods  and  winks  formed  so  large  a  part  of  the 
tale,  and  the  rest  was  so  involved,  that  Sophia  could  not 
even  arrive  at  the  ladies'  names.  "  But,"  as  Lady  Betty 
concluded  mysteriously,  "  it  may  serve  to  ease  your  mind, 
my  dear.  You  may  be  sure  he  won't  trouble  you  long.  La! 
child,  the  things  I've  heard  of  him — but  there,  I  mustn't 
tell  you." 

"  No,"  Sophia  answered  primly.  "  Certainly  not,  if  you 
please." 

"  Of  course  not.    But  you  may  take  it  from  me,  the  first 

pretty  face  he  sees why,  Sophy!  what  is  it!     What  is 

it?" 

No  wonder  she  screamed.  Sophia  had  gripped  her  arm 
with  one  hand;  with  the  other  she  was  striving  to  cover  the 
treasure  that  lay  forgotten  on  her  lap.  "  What  is  it? " 
Betty  repeated  frantically.  There  is  nothing  more  terrify- 
ing than  a  silent  alarm  ill-understood. 

The  next  moment  she  saw — and  understood.  Beside 
Sophia's  window,  riding  abreast  of  the  carriage,  in  such  a 
position  that  only  his  horse's  head,  by  forging  an  instant 
to  the  front,  had  betrayed  his  presence,  was  a  cloaked 
stranger.  Lady  Betty  caught  no  more  than  a  glimpse  of 
him,  but  that  was  enough.  Apart  from  the  doubt  how  long 
he  had  ridden  there,  inspecting  the  jewels  at  his  leisure,  his 
appearance  was  calculated  to  scare  less  nervous  travellers. 
Though  the  day  was  mild,  he  wore  a  heavy  riding  cloak,  the 
collar  of  which  rose  to  the  height  of  his  cheek  bone,  where 
it  very  nearly  met  the  uncocked  leaf  of  his  hat.  Between 
the  two,  an  eye  bright  and  threatening  gleamed  forth.  The 
rest  of  his  features  were  lost  in  the  depths  of  a  fierce  black 
riding  wig;  but  his  great  holsters,  and  long  swinging  sword, 
seemed  to  show  that  his  errand  was  anything  but  peaceful. 


188  SOPHIA 

The  moment  his  one  eye  met  Lady  Betty's  gaze,  he  fell 
back;  and  that  instant  Sophia  used  to  close  the  jewel  case, 
and  turn  the  key.  To  lower  the  drawer  to  the  floor  of  the 
carriage,  and  cover  it  with  her  skirts  was  the  work  of  a 
second,  then  still  trembling,  she  put  out  her  head,  and 
looked  back  along  the  road.  The  man  had  pulled  his  horse 
into  a  walk,  and  was  now  a  hundred  paces  behind  them. 
Even  at  that  distance,  his  cloaked  figure  as  he  lounged 
along  the  turf  beside  the  track,  loomed  a  dark  blot  on  the 
road. 

Sophia  drew  in  her  head.  "  Quick! "  she  cried.  "  Do 
you  stand  up  and  watch  him,  Betty,  while  I  put  the  case 
away.  Tell  me  in  a  moment  if  he  comes  on  or  is  likely  to 
overtake  us." 

Lady  Betty  complied.  "  He  is  walking  still,"  she  said, 
her  head  out  on  one  side.  "  Now  the  grooms — lazy  beasts, 
they  should  have  been  here — are  passing  him,  La,  what  a 
turn  it  gave  me.  He  had  an  eye — I  hope  to  goodness  we 
shall  never  meet  the  wretch  again." 

"  I  hope  we  may  never  meet  him  after  nightfall,"  Sophia 
answered  with  a  shudder.  And  she  clicked  the  drawer 
home,  dropped  the  valance  in  front  of  the  seat,  and  rose 
from  her  knees. 

"  I  noticed  one  thing,  the  left  hand  corner  of  his  cloak 
was  patched,"  Lady  Betty  said,  as  she  drew  in  her  head. 
"  And  I  should  know  his  horse  among  a  hundred:  chest- 
nut, with  white  forelegs  and  a  scarred  knee." 

"  He  saw  them,  he  must  have  seen  them! "  Sophia  cried 
in  great  distress.    "  Oh,  why  did  I  take  them  out!  " 

"  But  if  he  meant  mischief  he  would  have  stopped  us 
then,"  Lady  Betty  replied.  "  The  grooms  were  half  a  mile 
behind,  and  I'll  be  bound  Watkyns  was  asleep." 

"  He  dared  not  here,  because  of  these  houses,"  Sophia 
moaned,  as  they  rolled  by  a  small  inn,  the  outpost  of  the 
little  hamlet  of  New  Chapel  Green,  between  Lingfield  and 


THE  FIRST   STAGE  189 

Turner's  Heath.  "  He  will  wait  until  we  are  in  some  lonely 
spot,  in  a  wood,  or  crossing  a  common,  or " 

"Sho!"  Lady  Betty  cried  contemptuously — the  jewels 
were  not  hers,  and  weighed  less  heavily  on  her  mind.  "  We 
are  only  five  miles  from  Grinstead,  see,  there  is  the  mile- 
stone, and  it  is  early  in  the  afternoon.  He'll  not  rob  us 
here  if  he  be  Turpin  himself." 

"  All  the  same,"  Sophia  cried,  "  I  wish  the  diamonds  were 
safe  at  Lewes." 

"  Why,  child,  they  are  your  own!  "  Lady  Betty  answered. 
"  If  you  lose  them,  whose  is  the  loss?  " 

But  Sophia,  whether  she  agreed  or  had  her  own  views  of 
the  fact,  appeared  to  draw  little  comfort  from  it.  As  the 
horses  slowly  climbed  the  hill  and  again  descended  the  slope 
to  Felbridge,  her  head  was  more  often  out  of  the  window 
than  in  the  carriage.  She  beckoned  to  the  grooms  to  come 
on;  she  prayed  Watkyns,  who,  sure  enough,  was  asleep,  to 
be  on  the  alert;  she  bade  the  post-boys  whip  on.  Nor  did 
she  show  herself  at  ease,  or  heave  a  sigh  of  relief,  until  the 
gibbet  at  the  twenty-ninth  milestone  was  safely  passed,  and 
the  carriage  rattled  over  the  pavement  of  East  Grinstead. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A    SQUIBE    OF   DAMES 

To  one  of  the  travellers  the  bustle  of  the  town  was  more 
than  welcome.  It  was  Thursday,  market  day  at  East  Grin- 
stead,  and  the  post-boys  pushed  their  way  with  difficulty 
through  streets  teeming  with  chapmen  and  butter  women, 
and  here  bleating  with  home-going  sheep,  there  alive  with 
the  squeaking  of  pigs.  Outside  the  White  Lion  a  jovial 
half-dozen  of  graziers  were  starting  home  in  company;  for 
the  roads  were  less  safe  on  market  evenings  than  on  other 
days.  In  front  of  the  Dorset  Arms,  where  our  party  was 
to  lie,  a  clumsy  carrier's  wain,  drawn  by  oxen,  stood  wait- 
ing. The  horse-block  was  beset  by  country  bucks  mount- 
ing after  the  ordinary;  and  in  the  yard  a  post-chaise  was 
being  wheeled  into  place  for  the  night  by  the  united  efforts 
of  two  or  three  stable-boys.  Apparently  it  had  just  arrived, 
for  the  horses,  still  smoking,  were  being  led  to  the  stable, 
through  the  press  of  beasts  and  helpers. 

Sophia  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  the  stir  of  the  crowd  sank 
into  her  mind.  When  Lady  Betty,  after  they  had  washed 
and  refreshed  themselves,  suggested  that,  until  the  dis- 
order in  the  house  abated,  they  would  be  as  well  strolling 
through  the  town,  she  made  no  demur;  and,  followed  at  a 
distance  by  one  of  the  grooms,  they  sallied  forth.  The  first 
thing  they  visited  was  the  half-ruined  church.  After  this 
they  sat  awhile  in  the  churchyard,  and  then  from  the  Sack- 
ville  Almshouses  watched  the  sun  go  down  behind  the 
heights  of  Worth  Forest.    They  were  both  pleased  with  the 

190 


A   SQUIRE   OF  DAMES  191 

novel  scene,  and  Lady  Betty,  darting  her  arch  glances 
hither  and  thither,  and  counting  a  score  of  conquests,  drew 
more  than  one  smile  from  her  grave  companion.  True, 
these  were  but  interludes,  and  poor  Sophia,  brooding  on 
the  future,  looked  sad  twice  for  once  she  looked  merry;  but 
their  fright  in  the  carriage  had  no  part  in  her  depression. 
She  had  forgotten  it  in  the  sights  of  this  strange  place, 
when,  almost  at  the  inn  door,  it  was  forced  on  her  attention. 

She  happened  to  look  back  to  see  if  the  groom  was  fol- 
lowing, and  to  her  horror  caught  sight,  not  of  the  groom, 
but  of  the  cloaked  stranger.  It  was  evident  he  was  dogging 
them,  for  the  moment  his  eyes  met  hers  he  vanished  from 
sight.  There  were  still  many  abroad,  belated  riders  ex- 
changing last  words  before  they  parted,  or  topers  cracking 
jokes  through  open  windows;  and  the  man  was  lost  among 
these  before  Lady  Betty  had  even  seen  him. 

But  Sophia  had  seen  him;  and  she  felt  all  her  terrors 
return  upon  her.  Trembling  at  every  shadow — and  the 
shadows  were  thickening,  the  streets  were  growing  dark 
— she  hurried  her  companion  into  the  inn,  nor  rested  until 
she  had  assured  herself  that  the  carriage  was  under  lock  und 
key  in  the  chaise-house.  Even  then  she  was  in  two  minds; 
apprehending  everything,  seeing  danger  in  either  course. 
Should  she  withdraw  the  diamonds  from  their  hiding-place 
and  conceal  them  about  her  person,  or  in  the  chamber  which 
she  shared  with  Lady  Betty?  Or  should  she  leave  them 
where  they  were  in  accordance  with  Sir  Hervey's  directions? 

She  decided  on  the  last  course  in  the  end,  but  with  mis- 
givings. The  fate  of  the  jewels  had  come  in  her  mind  to  be 
one  with  her  fate.  To  lose  them  while  they  were  in  her  care 
seemed  to  her  one  with  appropriating  them;  and  from  that 
she  shrank  with  an  instinctive,  overmastering  delicacy,  that 
spoke  more  strongly  than  any  words  of  the  mistake  she  had 
made  in  her  marriage.  They  were  his  family  jewels,  his 
mother's  jewels,  the  jewels  of  the  women  of  his  house;  and 


192  SOPHIA 

she  panted  to  restore  them  to  his  hands.  She  felt  that  only 
by  restoring  them  to  him  safe,  unaccepted,  unworn,  could 
she  retain  her  self-respect,  or  her  independence. 

Naturally,  Lady  Betty  found  her  anxiety  excessive;  and 
at  supper,  seeing  her  start  at  every  sound,  rallied  her  on  her 
timidity.  Their  bedroom  was  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  looked  through  one  window  on  the  inn-yard  and  the 
door  of  the  chaise-house.  "  I  see  clearly  you  would  have 
been  happier  supping  upstairs,"  Lady  Betty  whispered,  tak- 
ing advantage  of  an  instant  when  the  servants  were  out 
of  earshot.  "  You  do  nothing  but  listen.  Shall  I  go  up,  as 
if  for  my  handkerchief,  and  see  that  all  is  right  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no!  "  Sophia  cried. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  is  what  you  mean,"  the  other  retorted 
good-naturedly;  and  was  half-way  across  the  room  before 
Sophia  could  protest.  "  I  am  going  upstairs  for  something 
I've  forgotten,  Watkyns,"  Lady  Betty  cried,  as  she  passed 
the  servant. 

Sophia,  listening  and  balancing  her  spoon  in  her  hands, 
awaited  her  return;  and  the  moments  passed,  and  passed, 
and  still  Lady  Betty  did  not  come  back.  Sophia  grew 
nervous  and  more  nervous;  rose  at  last  to  follow  her,  and 
sat  down  again,  ashamed  of  the  impulse.  At  length,  when 
the  waiter  had  gone  out  to  hasten  the  second  course,  and 
Watkyns'  back  was  turned,  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
She  jumped  up  and  slipped  out  of  the  room,  passed  two 
gaping  servants  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  in  a  moment 
had  darted  up.  Without  waiting  for  a  light,  she  groped  her 
way  along  the  narrow  passage  that  led  to  the  room  she 
shared  with  Lady  Betty.  A  window  on  the  left  looked  into 
the  inn-yard  and  admitted  a  glimmer  of  reflected  light;  but 
it  was  not  this,  it  was  something  she  heard  as  she  passed 
it,  that  brought  her  to  a  sudden  stand  beside  the  casement. 
From  the  room  she  was  seeking  came  the  sound  of  a  low 
voice  and  a  stifled  laugh.    An  instant  Sophia  fancied  that 


A  SQUIRE   OF  DAMES  193 

Lady  Betty  was  lingering  there  talking  to  her  woman;  and 
she  felt  a  spark  of  annoyance.  Then — what  she  thought  she 
could  never  remember.  For  her  eyes,  looking  mechanically 
through  the  panes  beside  her,  saw,  a  little  short  of  the  fatal 
chaise-house,  a  patch  of  bright  light,  proceeding  doubtless 
from  the  unshuttered  window  of  the  bedroom,  and  erect  in 
the  full  of  it  the  cloaked  figure  of  the  strange  rider — of  the 
man  who  had  dogged  them! 

He  was  looking  upwards  at  the  illumined  window,  his 
hat  raised  a  little  from  his  head,  the  arm  that  held  it  inter- 
posed between  Sophia's  eyes  and  his  face.  Still  she  knew 
him.  She  had  not  a  doubt  of  his  identity.  The  candle  rays 
fell  brightly  on  the  thick  black  wig,  on  the  patched  corner 
of  the  cloak,  raised  by  the  pose  of  his  arm;  and  in  a  whirl  of 
confused  thoughts  and  fears,  Sophia  felt  her  knees  shake 
under  her. 

A  fresh  whisper  in  the  room  was  the  signal  for  a  low 
giggle.  The  man  bowed  and  moved  a  step  nearer,  still 
bowing;  which  brought  his  knees  against  the  sloping  shaft 
of  a  cart  that  was  set  conveniently  beneath  the  window. 
Sophia — a  shiver  running  down  her  back  as  she  saw  how 
easily  he  could  ascend — began  to  understand.  The  villain 
was  tampering  with  Lady  Betty's  maid!  Probably  he  was 
already  in  league  with  the  woman;  certainly,  to  judge  by 
the  sounds  that  reached  the  listener's  ear — for  again  she 
caught  a  suppressed  titter — he  was  on  terms  with  her. 

Sophia  felt  all  a  woman's  rage  against  a  woman,  and 
wasted  no  further  time  on  thought.  She  had  courage  and 
to  spare,  her  fears  for  the  jewels  notwithstanding.  In  a 
twinkling  she  was  at  the  door,  had  flung  it  open,  and,  burn- 
ing with  indignation,  had  bounced  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,  prepared  to  annihilate  the  offender.  Yet  not  pre- 
pared for  what  she  saw.  In  the  room  was  only  Lady  Betty; 
who,  as  she  entered,  sprang  from  the  window  and  stood  con- 
fronting her  with  crimson  cheeks. 
13 


194  SOPHIA 

"Betty!"  Sophia  gasped.  "Betty?"  And  stood  as  if 
turned  to  stone;  her  face  growing  harder  and  harder,  and 
harder.  At  last — "  Lady  Betty,  what  does  this  mean?  "  she 
asked  in  icy  accents. 

The  girl  giggled  and  shook  her  hair  over  her  flushed  face 
and  wilful  eyes;  but  did  not  answer. 

"  What  does  it  mean?  "  Sophia  repeated.  "  I  insist  on 
an  answer." 

Lady  Betty  pouted  and  half  turned  her  back.  "  Oh, 
la!  "  she  cried,  at  last,  pettishly  shrugging  her  shoulders, 
"Don't  talk  like  that!  You  frighten  me  out  of  my  wits! 
Instead  of  talking,  we'd  better  close  the  window,  unless  you 
want  him  to  be  as  wise  as  we  are." 

"Him!"  Sophia  cried,  out  of  patience  with  the  girl's 
audacity.  "Him?  Am  I  to  understand,  then,  that  you 
have  been  talking  through  the  window?  You  a  young 
lady  in  my  company,  to  a  man  whom  you  never  saw  until 
to-day?  A  strange  man  met  on  the  road,  and  of  whose 
designs  you  have  been  warned?  I  cannot,  I  cannot  be- 
lieve it!  I  cannot  believe  my  eyes,  Lady  Betty! "  she  con- 
tinued warmly.  "  You,  at  this  window,  at  this  hour,  talking 
to  a  common  stranger?  A  stranger  of  whose  designs  I  have 
warned  you?  Why,  if  your  woman,  miss,  if  your  woman 
were  to  be  guilty  of  such  conduct,  I  could  hardly  believe  it! 
I  could  hardly  believe  that  I  saw  aright!  " 

And  honestly  Sophia  was  horrified;  shocked,  as  well  as 
puzzled.  So  that  it  seemed  to  her  no  more  than  fitting,  no 
more  than  a  late  awakening  to  decency  when  the  culprit, 
who  had  accomplished — but  with  trembling  fingers — the 
closing  of  the  window,  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
and  flung  herself  on  the  bed.  Sophia  saw  her  shoulders 
heave  with  emotion,  and  hoped  that  at  last  she  understood 
what  she  had  done;  that  at  last  she  appreciated  what  others 
would  think  of  such  reckless,  such  inexplicable  conduct. 
And  my  lady  prepared  to  drive  home  the  lesson.    Judge  of 


A   SQUIRE   OF  DAMES  195 

her  surprise,  when  Lady  Betty  cut  her  first  word  short  by 
springing  up  as  hastily  as  she  had  thrown  herself  down, 
and  disclosed  a  face  convulsed  not  with  sorrow,  but  with 
laughter. 

"  Oh,  you  silly,  silly  thing!  "  she  cried;  and  before  Sophia 
could  prevent  her,  she  had  cast  her  arms  round  her  neck, 
and  was  hugging  her  in  a  paroxysm  of  mirth.  "  Oh,  you 
dear,  silly  old  thing!  And  it's  only  a  week  since  you  eloped 
yourself! " 

"I!"  Sophia  cried,  enraged  by  the  ungenerous  taunt. 
And  she  tried  fiercely  but  vainly  to  extricate  herself. 

"Yes,  you!  You!  And  were  married  at  Dr.  Keith's 
chapel!  And  now  how  you  talk!  Mercy,  ma'am,  butter 
won't  melt  in  your  mouth  now!  " 

"Lady  Betty!"  Sophia  cried,  in  a  cold  rage,  "let  me 
go!  Do  you  hear?  Let  me  go!  How  dare  you  talk  to 
me  like  that?  How  dare  you?"  she  continued,  trembling 
with  indignation.  "  What  has  my  conduct  to  do  with 
yours?  Or  how  can  you  presume  to  mention  it  in  the  same 
breath?  I  may  have  been  foolish,  I  may  have  been  indis- 
creet, but  I  never,  never,  stooped  to " 

"  Call  it  the  highway  at  once,"  said  the  unrepentant 
one,  "  for  I  know  that  is  what  you  have  in  your  mind." 

Sophia  gasped.  "  If  you  can  put  it  so  clearly,"  she  said, 
"  I  hope  you  have  more  sense  than  appears  from  the — 
the " 

"  Lightness  of  my  conduct!  "  Lady  Betty  cried,  with  a 
fresh  peal  of  laughter.  "  Oh,  you  dear,  silly  old  thing,  I 
would  not  be  your  daughter  for  something!  " 

"Lady  Betty?" 

"  You  dear,  don't  you  Lady  Betty  me!  A  highwayman? 
Oh,  it  is  too  delicious!  Too  diverting!  Are  you  sure  it  isn't 
Turpin  come  to  life  again?  Or  Cook  of  Barnet?  Or  the 
gallant  Macheath  from  the  Opera?  Why,  you  old  dear,  the 
man  is  nothing  better  nor  worse  than  a — lover!  " 


196  SOPHIA 

"  A  lover?  "  Sophia  cried. 

"  Well,  yes — a  lover,"  Lady  Betty  repeated,  lightly 
enough;  but  to  her  credit  be  it  said,  she  did  blush  at  last — 
a  little,  and  folded  her  handkerchief  into  a  hard  square  and 
looked  at  it  with  an  air  of — of  comparative  bashfulness. 
"  Dear  me,  yes — a  lover.  He  followed  us  from  London; 
and,  to  make  the  deeper  impression,  I  suppose,  made  a  Guy 
Fawkes  of  himself!    That's  all!  " 

"All?"  Sophia  said  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  all,  all,  all!"  Lady  Betty  retorted,  ridding  her- 
self in  an  instant  of  her  penitent  air.  "  All!  And  aren't  you 
glad,  my  dear,  to  find  that  you  were  frightening  yourself  for 
nothing! " 

"  But  who  is  he — the  gentleman?  "  Sophia  asked  faintly. 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  a  gentleman,"  the  little  flirt  answered, 
tossing  her  head  with  pretty  but  cruel  contempt.  "'He's  " 
— with  a  giggle — "  at  least  he  calls  himself — Mr.  Fanshaw." 

"  Mr.  Fanshaw?  "  Sophia  repeated;  and  first  wondered 
and  then  remembered  where  she  had  heard  the  name.  "  Can 
it  be  the  same?  "  she  exclaimed,  reddening  in  spite  of  her- 
self as  she  met  Lady  Betty's  eye.  "  Is  he  a  small,  foppish 
man,  full  of  monstrous  airs  and  graces,  and — and  rather 
underbred?" 

Lady  Betty  clapped  her  hands.  "  Yes,"  she  cried. 
"  Drawn  to  the  life!  Where  did  you  see  him?  But  I'll  tell 
you  if  you  like.    'Twas  at  Lane's,  ma'am! " 

"  Yes,  it  was,"  Sophia  answered  a  trifle  sternly.  "  But 
how  do  you  know,  miss?  " 

"  Well,  I  do  know,"  Lady  Betty  answered.  And  again 
she  had  the  grace  to  blush  and  look  down.  "  At  least — I 
thought  it  likely.  Because,  you  old  dear,  don't  you  re- 
member a  note  you  picked  up  at  Vauxhall  gardens,  that  was 
meant  for  me?    Yes,  I  vow  you  do.    Well, 'twas  from  him." 

"  But  that  doesn't  explain,"  Sophia  said  keenly,  "  why 
you  guessed  that  I  saw  him  at  Lane's  shop?  " 


A  SQUIRE   OF  DAMES  197 

"  Oh,"  Lady  Betty  answered,  wincing  a  little.  "  To  be 
sure,  no,  it  doesn't.  But  he's — he's  just  Lane's  son.  There, 
now  you  know  it!  " 

"Mr.  Fanshaw?" 

Lady  Betty  nodded,  a  little  shamefacedly.  "'Tis  so," 
she  said.  "  For  the  name,  it's  his  vanity.  He's  the  vainest 
creature,  he  thinks  every  lady  is  in  love  with  him.  Never 
was  such  sport  as  to  lead  him  on.  I  am  sure  I  thought  I 
should  have  died  of  laughing  before  you  came  in  and  fright- 
ened me  out  of  my  wits!  " 

Sophia  looked  at  her  gravely.  "  I  am  sure  of  something 
else,"  she  said. 

"  Now  you  are  going  to  preach!  "  Lady  Betty  cried;  and 
tried  to  stop  her  mouth. 

"  No,  I  am  not,  but  you  gave  me  a  promise,  in  my  room 
in  Arlington  Street,  Betty.  That  you  would  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  the  writer  of  that  note." 

Lady  Betty  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  looked  piteously  at 
her  companion.  "Oh,  I  didn't,  did  I?"  she  said;  and  at 
last  she  seemed  to  be  really  troubled.  "I  didn't,  did  I? 
'Twas  only  that  I  would  not  correspond  with  him.  I  pro- 
test it  was  only  that.  And  I  have  not.  I've  not,  indeed," 
she  protested.  "  But  when  I  found  him  under  the  window, 
and  heard  that  he  was  Mohocking  about  the  country  in 
that  monstrous  cloak  and  hat,  for  all  the  world  like  the 
Beggar's  Opera  on  horseback,  and  all  for  the  love  of  me,  it 
was  not  in  flesh  and  blood  not  to  divert  oneself  with  him! 
He's  such  a  creature!  You've  no  notion  what  a  creature 
it  is!  " 

"  I've  this  notion,"  Sophia  answered  seriously.  "  If  you 
did  not  promise,  you  will  promise.  What  is  more,  I  shall 
send  for  him,  and  I  shall  tell  him,  in  your  presence,  that  this 
ridiculous  pursuit  must  cease." 

"  But  if  he  will  not?  "  Lady  Betty  asked,  with  an  arch 
look.    "  I  am  supposed — to  have  charms,  you  know?  " 

•'  I  shall  tell  your  father." 


198  SOPHIA 

"  La,  ma'am/'  the  child  retorted,  with  a  curtsey,  "  you 
are  married!    There  is  no  doubt  about  that!  " 

Sophia  reddened,  but  did  not  answer;  and  for  a  moment 
Betty  sat  on  the  bed,  picking  the  coverlet  with  her  fingers 
and  looking  sulky.'  On  a  sudden  she  leapt  up  and  threw 
her  arms  round  Sophia's  neck.  "  Well,  do  as  you  like!  " 
she  cried  effusively.  "  After  all,  'twill  be  a  charming  scene, 
and  do  him  good,  the  fright!  Don't  think,"  the  little  minx 
continued,  tossing  her  head  disdainfully,  "  that  I  ever  wish 
to  see  him  again,  or  would  let  him  touch  me  with  his  little 
finger!    Not  I!    But — one  does  not  like  to " 

"  We'll  have  no  but,  if  you  please,"  Sophia  said  gently, 
but  firmly.  She  had  grown  wondrous  wise  in  the  space  of  a 
short  month.  "  Whatever  he  is,  he  is  no  fit  mate  for  Lady 
Betty  Cochrane,  and  shall  not  get  her  into  trouble!  I'll 
call  your  woman,  and  bid  her  go  find  him." 

Fortunately  the  maid  knocked  at  the  door  at  that  mo- 
ment. She  came,  anxious  to  learn  if  anything  ailed  them, 
and  why  they  did  not  return  to  finish  their  supper.  They 
declined  to  do  so,  bade  her  have  it  removed,  and  a  pot  of  tea 
brought;  then  Sophia  told  her  what  she  wanted,  and  having 
instructed  her,  despatched  her  on  her  errand. 

An  assignation,  through  her  woman,  was  the  guise  in 
which  the  affair  appeared  to  Mr.  Fanshaw's  eyes  when  he 
got  the  message.  And  great  was  his  joy  nor  less  his 
triumph.  Was  ever  lover,  he  asked  himself,  more  com- 
pletely or  more  quickly  favoured?  Could  Rochester  or 
Bellamour,  Tom  Hervey  or  my  Lord  Lincoln  have  made  a 
speedier  conquest?  No  wonder  his  thoughts,  always  on  the 
sanguine  side,  ran  riot  as  he  mounted  the  stairs;  or  that 
his  pulses  beat  to  the  tune  of — 

But  he  so  teased  me, 

And  he  so  pleased  me, 

What  T  did,  you  must  have  done! 

as  he  followed  the  maid  along  the  passage. 


A   SQUIRE   OF  DAMES  199 

The  only  sour  in  his  cup,  indeed,  arose  from  his  costume. 
That  he  knew  to  be  better  fitted  for  the  road  than  for  a 
lady's  chamber;  to  be  calculated  rather  to  strike  the  youth- 
ful eye  and  captivate  the  romantic  imagination  at  a  distance 
than  to  become  a  somewhat  puny  person  at  short  range.  As 
he  passed  an  old  Dutch  mirror,  that  stood  in  an  angle  of  the 
stairs,  he  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  reduce  the  wig,  and 
control  the  cloak;  but  in  vain,  it  was  only  to  accentuate  the 
boots.  Worse,  his  guide  looked  to  see  why  he  lingered, 
caught  him  in  the  act,  and  tittered;  after  which  he  was 
forced  to  affect  a  haughty  contempt  and  follow.  But  what 
would  he  not  have  given  at  that  moment  for  his  olive  and 
silver,  a  copy  of  Mr.  Walpole's  birth-night  suit?  Or  for  his 
French  grey  and  Mechlin,  and  the  new  tie-wig  that  had 
cost  his  foolish  father  seven  guineas  at  Protin,  the  French 
perruquier's?  Much,  yet  what  mattered  it,  since  he  had 
conquered?  Since  even  while  he  thought  of  these  draw- 
backs, he  paused  on  the  threshold  of  his  lady's  chamber,  and 
saw  before  him  his  divinity — pouting,  mutinous,  charming. 
She  was  standing  by  the  table  waiting  for  him  with  down- 
cast eyes,  and  the  most  ravishing  air  in  the  world. 

Strange  to  say  he  felt  no  doubt.  It  was  his  firm  belief, 
born  of  Wycherley  and  fostered  on  Crebillon  that  all  women 
were  alike,  and  from  the  three  beauty  Fitzroys  to  Oxford 
Kate,  were  wax  in  the  hands  of  a  pretty  fellow.  It  was  this 
belief  that  had  spurred  him  to  great  enterprises,  if  not  as 
yet,  to  great  conquests;  and  yet  so  powerfully  does  virtue 
impress  even  the  sceptics,  that  he  faltered  as  he  entered  the 
room.  Besides  that  ladyship  of  hers  dashed  him!  He  could 
not  deny  that  his  heart  bounced  painfully.  But  courage! 
As  he  recalled  the  invitation  he  had  received,  he  recovered 
himself.  He  advanced,  simpering;  he  was  ready,  at  a  word, 
to  fall  at  her  feet.  "  Oh,  ma'am,  'tis  a  happiness  beyond  my 
desert,"  he  babbled — in  his  heart  damning  his  boots,  and 
trying  to  remember  M.  Siras'  first  position.    "  Only  to  be 


200  SOPHIA 

allowed  to  wait  on  your  ladyship  places  me  in  the  seventh 
heaven!  Only  to  be  allowed  to  worship  at  the  shrine  of 
beauty  is — is  a  great  privilege,  ma'am.  But  to  be  permitted 
to  hope — that  I  am  not  altogether — I  mean,  my  lady/'  he 
amended,  growing  a  little  flustered,  "  that  I  am  not 
entirely " 


"  What? "  Lady  Betty  asked,  eyeing  him  archly,  her 
finger  in  her  mouth,  her  head  on  one  side. 

"  Indifferent  to  your  ladyship!  Oh,  I  assure  your  lady- 
ship never  in  all  my  life  have  I  felt  so  profound  a " 

"Keally?" 

"  A — an  admiration  of  any  one,  never  have  I " 

"  Said  so  much  to  a  lady!    That,  sir,  I  can  believe!  " 

This  time  the  voice  was  not  Betty's,  and  he  started  as  if 
he  had  been  pricked.  He  spun  round,  and  saw  Sophia 
standing  beside  the  fire,  a  little  behind  the  door  through 
which  he  had  entered.  He  had  thought  himself  alone 
with  his  inamorata;  and  his  face  of  dismay  was  ludicrous. 
"  Oh!  "  he  faltered,  bowing  hurriedly,  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
ma'am,  I — I  did  not  see  you." 

"  So  I  suppose,"  she  answered,  coldly,  "  or  you  would  not 
have  presumed  to  say  such  words  to  a  lady." 

He  cringed.  "  I  am  sure,"  he  stammered,  "  if  I  have 
been  wanting  in  respect,  I  beg  her  ladyship's  pardon!  I  am 
sure,  I  know " 

"  Are  you  sure— you  know  who  you  are?  "  Sophia  asked 
with  directness. 

He  was  all  colours  at  once,  but  strove  to  mask  the  wound 
under  a  pretty  sentence.  "  I  trust  a  gentleman  may  aspire 
to — to  all  that  beauty  has  to  give,"  he  simpered.  "  I  may 
not,  ma'am,  be  of  her  ladyship's  rank." 

"  No,  it  is  clear  that  you  are  not!  "  Sophia  answered. 

"  But  I  am  a  gentleman." 

"  The  question  is,  are  you?  "  she  retorted.  "  There  are 
gentlemen  and  gentlemen.  What  is  your  claim  to  that 
name,  sir?  " 


A   SQUIRE   OF  DAMES  201 

"  S'help  me,  ma'am!  "  he  exclaimed,  affecting  the  utmost 
surprise  and  indignation.  "  The  Fanshaws  of  Warwick- 
shire have  been  commonly  taken  for  such." 

"  The  Fanshaws  of  Warwickshire?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"  Perhaps  so.  It  may  be  so.  I  do  not  know  them.  But 
the  Fanshaws  of  nowhere  in  particular?  Or  shall  I  say  the 
Lanes  of  Piccadilly?  " 

His  face  flamed  scarlet  below  the  black  wig.  His  tongue 
stuck  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  His  eyes  flickered  as  if  she 
had  threatened  to  strike  him.  For  a  moment  he  was  a 
pitiable  sight.  Then  with  a  prodigious  effort,  "  I — I  don't 
know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  he  muttered  hoarsely. 
"  I  don't  understand  you,  ma'am."  But  his  smile  was 
sickly,  and  his  eye  betrayed  his  misery. 

"  Don't  lie,  sir,"  Sophia  said  sternly;  and,  poor  little 
wretch,  found  out  and  exposed,  he  writhed  under  her  look 
of  scorn.  "  We  know  who  you  are,  a  tradesman's  son, 
parading  in  borrowed  plumes.  What  we  do  not  know,  what 
we  cannot  understand,"  she  continued  with  ineffable  dis- 
dain, "  is  how  you  can  think  to  find  favour  in  a  lady's  eyes. 
In  a  lady's  eyes — you!  An  under-bred,  over-dressed 
apprentice,  who  have  never  done  anything  to  raise  yourself 
from  the  rank  in  which  you  were  born !  Do  you  know,  have 
you  an  idea,  sir,  what  you  are  in  our  eyes?  Do  you  know 
that  a  lady  would  rather  marry  her  footman;  for,  at  least, 
he  is  a  man.  If  you  do  not,  you  must  be  taught,  sir,  as  the 
puppy  is  taught  with  the  whip.    Do  you  understand  me?  " 

In  his  deserved  degradation,  his  eyes  sought  Lady  Betty's 
face.  She  was  looking  at  him  gravely;  he  read  no  hope  in 
her  eyes.  What  the  other  woman  told  him  then  was  true; 
and,  ah,  how  he  hated  her!  Ah,  how  he  hated  her!  He  did 
not  know  that  she  scourged  in  him  another's  offence.  He  did 
not  know  that  of  her  scorn  a  measure  fell  on  her  own  shoul- 
ders; that  she  had  been  deluded  by  such  an  one  as  he  was 


202  SOPHIA 

himself.  Above  all,  he  did  not  know  that  she  was  resolved 
that  the  child  with  her  should  not  suffer  as  she  had  suffered! 

He  thought  that  she  was  moved  by  sheer  wanton  brutal- 
ity; and  cringing,  smarting  under  the  lash  of  her  tongue, 
seeing  himself  for  the  moment  as  others  saw  him — a  mean 
little  jackanapes  mimicking  his  betters — he  could  have 
strangled  her.    But  he  was  dumb. 

"  You  had  the  audacity,"  Sophia  continued,  gravely,  "  to 
attend  me  once,  I  remember,  and  ply  me  with  your  foolish 
compliments!  And  you  have  written  to  this  lady,  you,  a 
shopman " 

"  I  am  not  a — a  shopman!  "  he  stuttered,  writhing. 

"  In  grade  you  are;  it  were  more  honour  to  you  were 
you  one  in  reality! "  she  retorted.  "  But  I  repeat  it,  you 
have  written  to  this  lady,  who,  the  better  to  teach  you 
a  lesson,  did  not  at  once  betray  what  she  thought  you.  For 
the  future,  however,  understand,  sir.  If  you  pester  her  with 
attentions,  or  even  cross  her  path,  I  will  find  those  who  will 
cane  you  into  behaviour.  And  in  such  a  way  that  you  will 
not  forget  it!  For  the  rest,  let  me  advise  you  to  get  rid  of 
those  preposterous  clothes,  change  that  sword  for  an  ell- 
wand, and  go  back  to  your  counter.  You  may  retire  now. 
Or  no!  Pettitt!  "  Sophia  continued,  as  she  opened  the  door, 
"Pettitt!''1  to  Lady  Betty's  woman,  "show  this  person 
downstairs." 

He  sneaked  out,  dumb.  For  what  was  he  to  say?  They 
were  great  ladies,  and  he  a  person,  fit  company  for  the  stew- 
ard's room,  a  little  above  the  servants'  hall.  He  bent  his 
head  under  the  maid's  scornful  eye,  hurried,  stumbling  in 
his  boots,  down  the  narrow  stairs,  nor  did  he  breathe  until 
he  reached  the  dark  street,  where  his  little  chest  beginning 
to  heave,  he  burst  into  scalding  tears  of  rage. 

He  suffered  horribly  in  his  tenderest  part — his  conceit. 
He  burned  miserably,  impotently,  poor  weakling,  to  be  re- 
venged.    If  he  could  bring  those  proud  women  to  their 


A   SQUIRE   OF  DAMES  203 

knees!  If  he  could  see  them  humbled,  as  they  had  humbled 
him!  If  he  could  show  them  that  he  was  not  the  poor 
creature  they  deemed  him!  If  he  could  sear  their  insolent 
faces — the  smallpox  seize  them!  If  he  could — aye,  the 
smallpox  seize  them! 

Presently  he  slunk  back  to  the  White  Lion,  where  he 
had  his  bed;  and,  finding  a  fire  still  burning  in  the  empty 
taproom — for  the  evening  was  chilly — he  took  refuge  there, 
and,  laying  his  head  on  the  beer-stained  table,  wept  anew. 
The  next  time  he  looked  up  he  found  that  a  man  and 
woman  had  entered  the  room,  and  were  standing  on  the 
hearth,  gazing  curiously  at  him. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

THE    PAVED    FOED 

If  Lady  Betty's  sprightliness  ever  deserted  her,  it  returned 
with  the  morning  as  regularly  as  the  light.  But  by  Sophia 
the  depressing  influence  of  a  strange  place,  viewed  through 
sheets  of  rain,  was  felt  to  the  full  next  day.  The  mind  must 
be  strong  that  does  not  tinge  the  future  with  the  colours 
which  the  eye  presents  at  the  moment;  and  her's  was  nowise 
superior  to  the  temptation.  Her  spirits,  as  she  rose  amid 
the  discomforts  of  a  Sussex  inn — and  Sussex  inns  and 
Sussex  roads  were  then  reputed  among  the  worst  in  Eng- 
land— and  prepared  to  continue  the  journey,  were  at  their 
lowest  ebb.  She  dreaded  the  meeting,  now  so  imminent, 
with  Sir  Hervey.  She  shrank  as  the  bather  on  the  verge 
of  the  stream  shrinks,  from  the  new  sphere,  the  new  home, 
the  new  duties  on  which  the  day  must  see  her  enter;  and 
enter  unsupported  by  love.  She  was  cold,  she  shook,  her 
knees  quaked  under  her;  she  had  golden  visions  of  what 
might  have  been,  and  her  heart  sobbed  as  she  plucked  her- 
self from  them.  To  Lady  Betty's  eye,  and  in  the  phrase  of 
the  day,  she  had  the  vapours;  alas,  she  suffered  with  better 
reason  that  the  fine  ladies  who  had  lately  made  them  the 
fashion. 

When  they  had  once  set  forth,  however,  the  motion  and 
the  change  of  outlook,  even  though  it  was  but  a  change 
from  dripping  eaves  to  woods  thrashing  in  the  wet  wind, 
gave  something  of  a  fillip  to  her  spirits.  Moreover,  the 
nearer  we  come  to  a  dreaded  event,  the  more  important 

204 


THE  PAVED  FORD  205 

loom  the  brief  stages  that  divide  us  from  it.  We  count  by 
months,  then  by  days;  at  length,  when  hours  only  remain, 
the  last  meal  is  an  epoch  on  the  hither  side  of  which  we  sit 
almost  content.  It  was  so  with  Sophia  when  she  had  once 
started.  They  were  to  dine  at  Lewes;  until  Lewes  was 
reached  she  put  away  the  future,  and  strove  to  enjoy  the 
hours  that  intervened. 

The  weather  was  so  foul  that  at  starting  they  took  Lady 
Betty's  maid  into  the  carriage,  and  pitied  Watkyns,  who 
had  no  choice  but  to  sit  outside,  with  his  hat  pulled  down  to 
his  collar,  and  the  rain  running  out  of  his  pockets.  The 
wild  hilly  road  through  Ashdown  Forest,  that  on  a  fine 
day  charms  the  modern  eye,  presented  to  them  only  dreary 
misty  tops  and  deep  sloughy  bottoms;  the  latter  so  delaying 
them — for  twice  in  the  first  six  miles  they  stuck  fast — that 
it  was  noon  when  they  reached  Sheffield  Green.  Dane  Hill 
was  slowly  climbed,  the  horses  straining  and  the  wheels 
creaking;  but,  this  difficulty  surmounted,  they  had  a  view 
of  flatter  country  ahead,  though  spread  out  under  heavy 
rains;  and  they  became  more  hopeful.  "  We  cannot  be  far 
from  Lewes,  now,"  Lady  Betty  said  cheerfully.  "  I  wonder 
what  Watkyns  thinks.  Pettitt,  put  your  head  out  and  ask 
him." 

Pettitt  did  so,  not  very  willingly,  and  after  exchanging 
a  few  words  with  the  man  drew  in  a  scared  face.  "  He 
says,  my  lady,  we  sha'n't  be  there  till  half  after  two  at  the 
best,"  she  announced.  "  Nor  then  if  the  water  is  out.  He 
says  if  it  goes  on  raining  another  hour,  he  does  not  know  if 
we  shall  ever  reach  it."  It  will  be  noticed  that  Watkyns, 
with  the  rain  running  down  his  back,  was  a  pessimist. 

"  Ever  reach  it?  "  Lady  Betty  retorted.  "  What  rubbish! 
But,  la,  suppose  we  are  stopped,  and  have  to  lie  in  the  fields? 
Pettitt,  did  you  ever  sleep  in  a  field?  " 

Pettitt  fairly  jumped  with  indignation.  "  Me,  my  lady!  " 
she  cried.  "  I  should  think  I  knew  better!  And  was 
brought  up  better.    Not  7,  indeed!  " 


206  SOPHIA 

"Well,"  Betty  answered  mischievously,  "if  we  have  to 
sleep  in  the  carriage,  I  give  yon  notice,  Pettitt,  there'll  not 
be  room  for  yon!  But  I  daresay  you'll  be  dry  enough — 
underneath,  if  we  choose  a  nice  place." 

Pettitt's  eyes  were  wide  with  horror.  "  Underneath?  " 
she  gasped. 

"  To  be  sure!  Or  we  might  find  a  haystack,"  Lady  Betty 
continued,  with  a  face  of  the  greatest  seriousness.  "  The 
men  could  lie  on  one  side  and  you  on  the  other " 

"  Me,  my  lady!    A  haystack?    Never!  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  use  to  say  never,"  Lady  Betty  answered; 
"  these  things  often  happen  when  one  travels.  And  after 
all,  you  would  have  the  one  side  to  yourself,  and  it  would 
be  quite  nice  and  proper.  And  if  there  were  no  mice  or 
rats  in  the  stack " 

The  maid  shrieked  feebly. 

"  As  there  often  are  in  haystacks,  I  am  sure  you  would 
do  as  well  as  we  should  in  the  carriage.  And — oh,  la! "  in 
a  different  tone,  "  who  is  that?    How  he  scared  me!  " 

A  horseman  going  the  same  way  had  come  up  with  the 
carriage;  as  she  spoke,  he  passed  it  at  a  rapid  trot.  The  two 
ladies  poked  their  heads  forward,  and  followed  him  with 
their  eyes.  "  It's  Mr.  Fanshaw,"  Sophia  muttered  in  great 
surprise. 

"  Fanshaw  ?  "  Lady  Betty  cried,  springing  up  in  excite- 
ment, and  as  quickly  sitting  down  again.  "  La,  so  it  is! 
You  don't  think  the  stupid  is  going  to  follow  us  after  what 
you  said?  If  he  does" — with  a  giggle — "I  don't  know 
what  they'll  say  at  Coke  Hall.  How  he  does  bump,  to  be 
sure!    And  how  hot  he  is!  " 

"  He  ought  to  have  returned  to  London!  " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  thought  you'd  frightened  him!  "  Lady 
Betty  answered  demurely. 

Sophia  said  nothing,  but  thought  the  more.  What  did 
the  man  mean?    He  had  collapsed  so  easily  the  night  before, 


THE   PAYED   FORD  207 

he  had  been  so  completely  prostrated  by  her  hard  words, 
she  had  taken  it  for  certain  he  would  abandon  the  pursuit. 
Yet  here  he  was,  still  with  his  back  to  London,  still  in  at- 
tendance on  them.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  some  hold 
over  Lady  Betty?  She  asked  Pettitt,  whose  face,  as  she  sat 
clutching  a  basket  and  looking  nervously  out  of  the  win- 
dow, was  a  picture  of  misery,  where  he  had  lain  at  East 
Grinstead. 

"  At  the  other  inn,"  Pettitt  answered  tearfully.  "  I  saw 
him  in  the  street  this  morning,  my  lady,  talking  to  two 
men.  I'm  sure  I  little  thought  then  that  I  might  have  to 
lie  in — oh,  Lord  ha'  mercy,  we're  over!  " 

She  squealed,  the  ladies  clutched  one  another,  the  car- 
riage lurched  heavily.  It  jolted  forward  a  yard  or  two  at  a 
dangerous  slant,  and  came  to  a  sudden  stand.  The  road 
undermined  by  the  heavy  rain  had  given  way;  and  the  near 
wheels  had  sunk  into  the  hole,  while  those  on  the  other  side 
stood  on  solid  ground.  A  little  more  and  the  carriage  must 
have  turned  over.  While  Watkyns  climbed  down  in  haste, 
and  the  grooms  dismounted,  the  three  inside  skipped  out,  to 
find  themselves  standing  in  the  rain,  in  a  little  valley  be- 
tween two  softly-rounded  hills,  that  sloped  upwards  until 
they  were  lost  in  the  fog.  There  was  nothing  else  for  it; 
they  had  to  wait  with  what  patience  they  might,  until  the 
three  servants  with  a  couple  of  bars,  which  travellers  in 
those  days  carried  for  the  purpose,  had  lifted  the  vehicle 
by  sheer  strength  from  the  pit  into  which  it  had  settled. 
Then  word  was  passed  to  the  horses,  the  postboys  cracked 
their  whips,  and,  with  a  bound,  the  carriage  stood  again 
on  firm  ground. 

So  far  good;  but  in  surmounting  the  difficulty,  half  an 
hour  had  been  wasted.  It  was  nearly  two  o'clock;  they  were 
barely  half  way  to  Lewes.  The  patient  Watkyns,  holding 
the  door  for  them  to  enter,  advised  that  they  could  not  now 
be  in  before  four.  "  If  then,"  he  added  ominously.  "  I  fear, 


208  SOPHIA 

my  lady,  the  ford  on  this  side  of  Chayley  is  like  to  he  deep. 
I  don't  know  how  'twill  he,  my  lady,  hut  we'll  do  our  best." 

"  You  must  not  drown  us!  "  Lady  Betty  cried  gaily;  hut 
had  better  have  held  her  tongue,  for  her  woman,  between 
damp  and  fright,  began  to  cry,  and  was  hardly  scolded  into 
silence. 

So,  half-past  two,  which  should  have  seen  them  at  Lewes, 
found  them  ploughing  through  heavy  mud  at  a  foot's  pace 
behind  sobbing  horses;  the  rain,  the  roads,  and  the  desolate 
landscape,  all  bearing  out  the  evil  repute  of  Sussex  high- 
ways. Abreast  of  the  windmill  at  Plumpton  by-road  they 
found  dry  going,  which  lasted  for  half  a  mile,  and  the  in- 
crease of  speed  cheered  even  the  despairing  Pettitt.  But 
at  the  foot  of  the  descent  they  stuck  fast  once  more,  in  a 
hole  ill-mended  with  faggots;  and  for  a  fair  hundred  yards 
the  men  had  to  push  and  pull.  They  lost  another  half -hour 
here,  so  that  it  wanted  little  of  half-past  three  when  they 
came,  weary  and  despondent,  to  the  ford  below  Chayley, 
about  six  miles  short  of  Lewes.  The  grooms  were  mired  to 
the  knees,  Watkyns  was  little  better,  all  were  in  a  poor 
humour.  Lady  Betty's  woman  clung  and  screeched  on  the 
least  alarm;  and  on  all  the  steady  drizzle  and  the  heavy  road 
had  wrought  depressingly. 

"  Shall  we  have  difficulty  in  crossing?  "  Sophia  asked 
nervously,  as  they  drew  towards  the  ford,  and  saw  a  brown 
line  of  water  swirling  athwart  the  road.  A  horseman  and 
two  or  three  country  folk  were  on  the  bank,  gauging  the 
stream  with  their  eyes. 

Watkyns  shook  his  head.  "  I  doubt  it's  not  to  be  done 
at  all,  my  lady,"  he  said.  "  Here's  one  stopped  already, 
unless  I  am  mistaken." 

"  But  we  can't  stay  here,"  Sophia  protested,  looking  with 
longing  at  the  roofs  and  spire  that  rose  above  the  trees  be- 
yond the  stream.  On  the  bank  on  which  they  stood  was  a 
single  hovel  of  mud,  fast  melting  under  the  steady  down- 
pour. 


THE   PAYED   FORD  209 

"  I'll  see  what  they  say,  my  lady,"  Watkyns  answered, 
and  leaving  the  carriage  thirty  paces  from  the  water,  he 
went  forward  and  joined  the  little  group  that  conferred 
on  the  brink.  The  grooms  moved  on  also,  while  the  leading 
postboy,  standing  up  in  his  stirrups,  scanned  the  current 
with  evident  misgiving. 

"  'Tis  Fanshaw  on  the  horse,"  Sophia  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  So  it  is!  "  Lady  Betty  answered.  "  He's  afraid  to  cross, 
it  is  clear!  You  don't  think  we  shall  have  to  spend  the 
night  here  ?  " 

The  horses  hanging  their  heads  in  the  rain,  the  dripping 
postboys,  the  splashed  carriage,  the  three  faces  peering 
anxiously  at  the  flood,  through  which  they  must  pass  to 
gain  shelter — a  more  desolate  group  it  were  hard  to  con- 
ceive; unless  it  was  that  which  talked  and  argued  on  the 
bank,  and  from  which  Watkyns  presently  detached  himself. 
He  came  back  to  the  carriage. 

"  It's  not  to  be  done,  my  lady,"  he  said,  his  face  troubled. 
"  There's  but  one  opinion  of  that.  It's  a  mud  bottom,  they 
tell  me,  and  if  the  horses  dragged  the  carriage  in,  they 
could  never  pull  it  through.  Most  likely  they  wouldn't  face 
the  water.  It  must  fall  a  foot  they  say,  before  it'll  be  safe 
to  try  it." 

The  maid  shrieked.  Even  Sophia  looked  scared.  "  But 
what  are  we  to  do  ?  "  she  said.  "  We  cannot  spend  the  night 
here." 

"  Well,  my  lady,  the  gentleman  says  if  we  keep  down 
the  water  this  side,  there's  a  paved  ford  a  mile  lower  that 
should  be  passable.  It's  not  far  from  Fletching,  and  we 
could  very  likely  cross  there  or  get  shelter  in  Fletching,  if 
your  ladyship  should  not  choose  to  risk  it." 

"  But  how  does  the  gentleman  know?  "  Sophia  asked 
sharply. 

"  He's  of  this  country,"  Watkyns  answered.  "  Leastwise 
bred  here,  my  lady,  this  side  of  Lewes,  and  says  he  knows  the 
14 


210  SOPHIA 

roads.  It's  what  he's  going  to  do  himself.  And  I  don't 
know  what  else  we  can  do,  if  your  ladyship  pleases." 

"  Well,"  Sophia  said  doubtfully,  "  if  you  think  so?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Lady  Betty  cried  impulsively.  "  Let  us  go! 
We  can't  sit  here  all  night.    It  must  be  nearly  four  now." 

"  It's  all  that,  my  lady." 

"  And  we  shall  have  it  dark,  if  we  stay  here.  And  shall 
really  have  to  lie  under  a  haystack.  Besides,  you  may  be 
sure  he'll  not  lead  us  into  much  danger! "  she  continued, 
with  a  contemptuous  look  at  Mr.  Fanshaw.  "  If  we  take 
care  to  go  only  where  he  goes  we  shall  not  run  much  risk." 

As  if  he  heard  what  she  was  saying,  Mr.  Fanshaw  at  that 
moment  turned  his  horse,  and  passed  the  carriage;  he  was 
on  his  way  to  take  the  lane  that  ran  down  stream.  A  coun- 
tryman plodded  at  his  stirrup,  and  Sir  Hervey's  grooms  fol- 
lowed. After  them  came  a  second  countryman  with  a  sack 
drawn  over  his  shoulders.  As  this  man  passed  the  carriage 
Sophia  leaned  from  the  window  and  called  to  him. 

"Does  this  lane  lead  to  a  better  ford,  my  man?"  she 

asked. 

The  fellow  stared  at  Lady  Betty's  pretty  face  and  eager 
eyes.  "  Aye,  there's  a  ford,"  he  answered,  the  rain  dripping 
off  his  nose. 

"  A  better  ford  than  this?  " 

"  Ay,  'tis  paved." 

"  And  how  far  from  here  is  it?  " 

"  A  mile,  or  may  be  a  mile  and  a  bit." 

Sophia  gave  him  a  shilling.  She  nodded  to  Watkyns. 
"  I  think  we  had  better  go,"  she  said.  "  But  I  hope  it  may 
not  be  a  long  round,"  she  continued  with  a  sort  of  fore- 
boding. "  I  shall  be  glad  whc  n  we  are  in  the  main  road 
again." 

The  horses'  heads  once  turned,  however,  things  seemed 
to  go  better.  The  sky  grew  lighter,  the  rain  ceased,  the  lane, 
willow-lined,  and  in  places  invaded  by  the  swollen  stream 


THE   PAYED   FORD  211 

that  ran  beside  it,  proved  to  be  passable.  Even  the  mile  and 
a  bit  turned  out  to  be  no  more  than  two  miles,  and  in  half 
an  hour,  the  cavalcade,  to  which  Mr.  Fanshaw,  moving  in 
front,  had  the  air  of  belonging,  reached  the  ford. 

The  stream  was  wide  here,  but  so  full  that  the  brown 
water  swept  swiftly  and  silently  over  the  shallows.  Never- 
theless it  was  evident  that  Lane  knew  his  ground,  for,  to 
Lady  Betty's  astonishment,  he  rode  in  gallantly,  and 
spurred  his  horse  to  the  other  side,  the  water  barely  reach- 
ing its  knees.  Encouraged,  the  postboys  cracked  their 
whips  and  followed,  the  carriage  swayed,  Pettitt  screamed; 
for  a  moment  the  water  seemed  rising  all  round  them,  the 
next  they  were  across  and  jolting  up  the  farther  bank. 

"  There! "  Lady  Betty  cried  with  a  laugh  of  triumph. 
"I'd  have  bet  that  would  be  all  right!  When  I  saw  him 
go  through  I  knew  that  there  was  not  much  danger.  Six 
miles  more  and  we  shall  be  in  Lewes." 

Suddenly,  on  the  bank  they  had  left,  a  man  appeared, 
waving  his  arms  to  them.  The  carriage  had  turned  to  the 
left  after  crossing,  and  the  movement  brought  the  man  full 
into  view  from  the  window.  "  What  is  it?  "  Sophia  asked 
anxiously.  ''What  is  he  shouting?"  And  she  called  to 
Watkyns  to  learn  what  it  was. 

"  I  think  he  wants  help  to  come  over,  my  lady,"  Wat- 
kyns answered.  "  But  I'll  ask,  if  your  ladyship  pleases." 
And  he  went  back  and  exchanged  shouts  with  the  stranger, 
while  the  carriage  plodded  up  the  ascent.  By-and-by  Wat- 
kyns overtook  them.  "  It  was  only  to  tell  me,  my  lady,  that 
there  was  a  second  ford  we  should  have  to  pass,"  he 
explained. 

"A  second  ford?" 

"  Yes,  but  the  gentleman  in  front  had  told  me  so  already, 
and  that  it  was  no  worse  than  this,  or  not  much;  and  a 
farm  close  to  it,  with  men  and  a  team  of  oxen,  if  we  had 
need.    I  told  the  man  that,  my  lady,  and  all  he  answered 


212  SOPHIA 

was,  that  they  had  only  one  small  ox  at  the  farm,  and  he 
kept  shouting  that,  and  nothing  else.  But  I  could  not 
make  much  of  him.  And  any  way  we  must  go  on  now," 
Watkyns  continued,  with  just  so  much  sullenness  as  showed 
he  had  his  doubts.  "  We  came  through  that  grandly;  and 
with  luck,  my  lady,  we  should  be  in  Lewes  before  dark." 

"  At  any  rate  let  us  go  as  fast  as  we  can,"  Sophia,  an- 
swered.   This  late  mention  of  a  second  ford  disturbed  her, 
'and  she  looked  ahead  with  increasing  anxiety. 

It  was  soon  plain  that  to  travel  quickly  in  the  country 
in  which  they  now  found  themselves,  was  impossible.  The 
road  followed  a  shallow  valley  which  wound  among  low 
hills,  crowned  with  trees.  Now  the  carriage  climbed  slowly 
over  a  shoulder,  now  plunged  into  a  roughly-wooded  bot- 
tom, now  dragged  painfully  up  the  other  side,  the  ladies 
walking.  In  places  the  road  was  so  narrow  that  the  wheels 
barely  passed.  It  was  in  vain  Sophia  fretted,  in  vain  Lady 
Betty  ceased  to  jest,  that  Pettitt  cast  eyes  to  heaven  in 
token  of  speechless  misery,  Watkyns  swore  and  sweated  to 
think  what  Sir  Ilervey  would  say  of  it.  There  was  no  place 
where  the  carriage  could  be  turned;  and  if  there  had  been,  to 
go  back  seemed  as  bad  as  to  go  forward. 

By  way  of  compensation  the  sky  had  grown  clear;  a  flood 
of  pale  evening  sunshine  gilded  the  western  slopes  of  the 
hills.  The  clumps  that  here  and  there  crowned  the  sum- 
mits rose  black  against  an  evening  sky,  calm  and  serene. 
But  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  not  a  sign  of  man  appeared; 
the  country  seemed  without  population.  Once  indeed 
through  an  opening  on  the  left,  they  made  out  a  village 
spire  peeping  above  a  distant  shoulder;  but  it  was  two 
miles  away,  and  far  from  their  direction.  The  road,  at  the 
moment  the  sun  set,  wound  round  a  hill  and  began  to  de- 
scend following  the  bottom  of  a  valley.  By-and-by  they  saw 
before  them  a  row  of  trees  running  athwart  the  way,  and 
marking  water.    Here,  then,  was  the  second  ford. 


TUB   PAYED   FORD  213 

The  two  grooms  had  ridden  for  a  time  with  Lane — to 
give  Fanshaw  his  proper  name — a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
ahead  of  the  carriage.  The  countrymen  had  dropped  off  by 
tracks  invisible  to  the  strange  eye,  and  gone  to  homes  as 
invisible.  Watkyns  alone  was  beside  the  carriage,  which 
was  still  a  hundred  yards  short  of  the  crossing,  when  one  of 
the  grooms  was  seen  riding  back  to  it. 

He  waved  his  hand  in  the  air  as  he  reined  up.  "  It  won't 
do!  "  he  cried  loudly.  "  We  can  never  get  over.  You  can 
see  for  yourself,  Mr.  Watkyns." 

"  I  can  see  a  fool  for  myself!  "  the  valet  answered  sharply. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  frightening  the  ladies?  " 

The  groom — Sophia  noticed  that  his  face  was  flushed — 
fell  sullenly  behind  the  carriage  without  saying  more;  but 
the  mischief  was  done.  Pettitt  was  in  tears,  even  Sophia 
and  Lady  Betty  were  shaken.  They  insisted  on  alighting, 
and  joined  Lane  and  the  other  groom  who' stood  silenced  by 
the  prospect. 

The  stream  that  barred  the  way  was  a  dozen  yards  wide 
from  bank  to  bank,  the  water  running  strong  and  turbid 
with  ugly  eddies,  and  a  greedy  swirl.  Nor  was  this  the 
worst.  The  road  on  the  side  on  which  they  stood  sloped 
gently  into  the  stream.  But  on  the  farther  side,  the  bank 
was  high  and  precipitous,  and  the  road  rose  so  steeply  out 
of  the  water  that  the  little  hamlet  which  crowned  the  ridere 
beyond  hung  high  above  their  heads.  It  needed  no  experi- 
ence to  see  that  tired  horses,  fagged  by  a  journey  and  by  the 
labour  of  wading  through  the  deep  ford,  would  never  drag 
the  carriage  up  so  steep  a  pitch. 

Sophia  took  it  all  in.  She  took  in  also  the  late  even- 
ing light,  and  the  desolate  valley,  strewn  with  sparse  thorn 
trees,  down  which  they  had  come — and  from  which  this  was 
their  exit;  and  her  eyes  flashed  with  anger.  Hitherto,  in  her 
desire  to  have  no  dealings  with  Lane,  but  to  ignore,  if  she 
must  bear,  his  company,  she  had  refrained  from  questioning 


214  SOPHIA 

him;  though  with  each  mile  of  the  lengthening  distance  the 
temptation  had  grown.    Now  she  turned  to  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir/'  she  cried  harshly,  "  hy  bring- 
ing us  to  such  a  place  as  this?    Is  this  your  good  ford?  " 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  but  continued  to  stare  at  the 
water.    "  It's  generally  low  enough,"  he  muttered  sulkily. 

"  Did  you  expect  to  find  it  low  to-day?    After  the  rain?  " 

He  did  not  answer,  and  Watkyns  took  the  word.  "  If  we 
had  oxen  and  some  ropes,  or  even  half  a  dozen  men,"  he 
said,  "  we  could  get  the  carriage  across." 

"Then  where  is  his  farm?  And  the  team  of  oxen  of 
which  you  told  us?"  Sophia  continued,  addressing  Lane 
again.  "  Explain,  sir,  explain!  Why  have  you  brought  us 
to  this  place?    You  must  have  had  some  motive." 

"  The  farm  is  there,"  he  answered  sulkily,  pointing  to  the 
buildings  on  the  ridge  across  the  water.  "  And  it  would  be 
all  right,  but — but  it  has  changed  hands  since  I  was  here. 
And  the  people  are — they  tell  me  that  the  place  has  a  bad 


name." 


She  fancied  that  he  exchanged  a  look  with  the  groom  who 
stood  nearest;  at  any  rate  the  man  hastened  to  corroborate 
him.  "That's  true  enough!"  he  cried  with  a  hiccough. 
"  It's  dangerous,  my  lady,  so  they  tell  me." 

Sophia  stared.  The  servant's  manner  was  odd  and  free. 
And  how  did  he  know?  "Who  told  you?"  she  asked 
sharply. 

"  The  men  who  came  part  of  the  way  with  us,  my  lady." 

Sophia  turned  to  Watkyns.  "  It's  a  pity  you  did  not 
learn  this  before,"  she  said  severely.  "  You  should  not 
have  allowed  this  person  to  decoy  us  from  the  road.  For 
you,  sir,"  she  continued,  addressing  Lane,  "  I  cannot  con- 
ceive why  you  have  done  this,  or  why  you  have  brought  us 
here,  but  of  one  thing  you  may  be  sure.  If  there  be  roguery 
in  this  you  will  pay  a  sharp  reckoning  for  it." 

He  stood  by  his  horse's  head,  looking  doggedly  at  the 


THE   PAVED   FORD  215 

stream,  and  avoiding  their  eyes.  In  the  silence  Lady  Betty's 
woman  began  to  sob,  until  her  mistress  bade  her  be  quiet 
for  a  fool.  Yet  there  was  excuse  for  her.  With  the  fading 
of  the  light  the  valley  behind  them  had  taken  on  a  sinister 
look.  The  gnarled  thorn  trees  of  the  upper  part,  the  coarse 
marsh-grass  of  the  lower,  through  which  a  small  stream 
trickled,  forming  sullen  pools  among  stunted  alders,  spoke 
of  desolation  and  the  coming  of  night.  On  the  steep  slopes 
above  them  no  life  moved;  from  the  silent  hamlet  beyond 
the  water  came  no  sound  or  shout  of  challenge. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  postboys  found  a  voice.  "  We  could 
get  two  of  the  horses  through,"  he  said,  "  and  fetch  help 
from  Lewes.  It  cannot  be  more  than  four  or  five  miles  from 
here,  and  we  could  get  a  fresh  team  there,  and  with  ropes 
and  half  a  dozen  men  we  could  cross  well  enough!  " 

Sophia  turned  to  him.  "  You  are  a  man,"  she  said.  "  A 
guinea  apiece,  my  lads,  if  you  are  back  with  fresh  horses  in 
two  hours." 

"  We'll  do  our  best,  my  lady,"  the  lad  answered,  touch- 
ing his  cap.  "  'Twill  be  no  fault  of  ours,  if  we  are  not  back. 
We'll  try  the  house  first.  We're  six  men,"  he  continued, 
looking  round,  "  and  need  not  be  afraid  of  one  or  two,  if 
they  ben't  of  the  best." 

But  as  he  turned  the  nearest  groom  whispered  some- 
thing in  his  ear,  and  his  face  fell.  His  eyes  travelled  to  the 
little  cluster  of  buildings  that  crowned  the  opposite  ridge. 
On  the  left  of  the  steep  road  stood  two  cottages;  on  the  right 
the  gable  end  of  a  larger  house  rose  heavily  from  the  hill- 
side, and  from  the  sparse  gorse  bushes  that  bestrewed  it. 

None  of  the  chimneys  emitted  smoke;  but  Sophia,  follow- 
ing the  man's  eyes,  saw  that,  early  as  it  was,  and  barely  in- 
clining to  dusk,  a  small  window  in  the  gable  end  showed  a 
light.  "  Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "  they  have  a  light!  Let  us 
all  shout,  and  they  must  hear.  Why  should  we  be  afraid? 
Shout!"  she  continued,  turning  to  Watkyns.  "Do  you 
hear,  man?    What  are  you  afraid  of?  " 


216  SOPHIA 

"  Nothing,  my  lady,"  Watkyns  stammered;  and  he  hast- 
ened to  shout  "  Halloa!  Halloa  there-!  House!  "  But  his 
pale  face,  and  the  quaver  in  his  voice,  betrayed  that,  in  spite 
of  his  boast,  he  was  afraid;  while  the  faces  of  the  other  men, 
as  they  stood  waiting  for  an  answer,  their  eyes  riveted  on 
the  house,  seemed  to  show  that  they  shared  the  feeling. 

Sophia  noticed  this,  and  was  puzzled.  But  the  next 
moment  the  postboys  began  to  free  the  leaders  from  the 
harness,  and  to  mount  and  ride  them  into  the  water;  and 
in  the  excitement  of  the  scene,  she  forgot  her  suspicions. 
One  of  the  horses  refused  to  cross,  and,  wheeling  round  in 
the  stream,  came  near  to  unseating  its  rider.  But  the  post- 
boy persisted  gamely,  the  beast  was  driven  in  again,  and, 
after  hesitating  awhile,  snorting  in  the  shallows,  it  went 
through  with  a  rush,  and  plunged  up  the  bank  amid  an 
avalanche  of  mud  and  stones.  The  summit  of  the  ridge 
gained,  the  postboys  rose  in  their  stirrups  and  looked  back, 
waving  a  farewell.  The  next  moment  they  passed  between 
the  cottages  and  the  house,  and  disappeared. 

The  group,  left  below,  strained  their  eyes  after  them. 
But  nothing  rewarded  expectation.  No  cry  came  back,  no 
Lurrying  band  appeared,  laden  with  help,  and  shouting  en- 
couragement. From  the  buildings,  that  each  moment 
loomed  darker  and  darker,  came  no  sign  of  life.  Only,  as 
the  dusk  grew,  and  minute  by  minute  night  fell  in  the 
valley,  the  light  in  the  window  of  the  gable  end  waxed 
brighter  and  brighter,  until  it  shone  a  single  mysterious 
spark  in  a  wall  of  blackness. 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

IN   THE    VALLEY 

When  Sophia  at  last  lowered  her  eyes,  and  with  a  sigh 
of  disappointment  turned  to  her  companions — when  she 
awoke,  as  it  were,  and  saw  how  fast  the  dusk  had  gathered 
round  them,  and  what  strides  towards  shutting  them  in 
night  had  made  in  those  few  minutes,  she  had  much  ado  to 
maintain  her  composure.  Lady  Betty,  little  more  than  a 
child,  and  but  one  remove  from  a  child's  fear  of  the  dark, 
clung  to  her;  the  girl,  though  a  natural  high  spirit  forbade 
her  to  expose  her  fears,  was  fairly  daunted  by  the  gloom  and 
eeriness  of  the  scene.  Pettitt  seated  on  a  step  of  the  car- 
riage, weeping  at  a  word  and  shrieking  on  the  least  alarm, 
was  worse  than  useless;  while  the  men,  now  reduced  to  four, 
had  withdrawn  to  a  distance,  whence  their  voices,  subdued 
in  earnest  colloquy,  came  at  intervals  to  her  ears. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Surely  something?  Surely  they 
were  not  going  to  sit  there,  perhaps  through  the  whole 
night,  doing  nothing  to  help  themselves,  wholly  depending 
on  the  success  of  the  postboys?  That  could  not  be;  and  im- 
patiently Sophia  summoned  Watkyns,  "  Are  we  going  to 
do  nothing,"  she  asked  sharply,  "until  they  come  back? 
Cannot  one  of  the  grooms  return  the  way  we  came?  There 
was  the  man  at  the  mill — who  warned  us?  He  may  know 
what  to  do.    Send  one  of  the  servants  to  him." 

"  I  did  ask  the  gentleman  to  go,"  Watkyns  answered 
with  a  sniff  of  contempt,  "  or  else  to  ride  on  with  the  post- 
217 


218  SOPHIA 

boys  and  guide  them.  He's  got  us  into  this  scrape,  begging 
your  ladyship's  pardon,  and  he  ought  to  get  us  out!  But 
he's  all  for  not  separating;  says  that  it  isn't  safe,  and  he 
won't  leave  the  ladies.  He'll  do  nothing.  He's  turned  kind 
of  stupid  like,"  the  valet  added  with  a  snort  of  temper. 

Sophia's  lip  curled.  "  Then  let  one  of  the  grooms  go," 
she  said,  "  if  he's  afraid." 

Watkyns  hesitated.  "  Well,  the  truth  is,  my  lady,"  he  said, 
speaking  low,  and  looking  warily  behind  him,  "  they  are 
fuddled  with  drink,  and  that's  all  about  it.  Where  they  got 
the  stuff  I  don't  know,  but  I've  suspicions." 

Sophia  stared. 

"  I  think  I  can  guess  what  is  in  the  gentleman's  holsters," 
Watkyns  continued,  nodding  mysteriously.  "  And  I've  a 
notion  they  had  a  share  of  it,  when  my  back  was  turned. 
But  why  I  cannot  say.  Only  they  are  not  to  be  trusted.  I'd 
go  back  myself,  for  it  is  well  to  have  two  strings;  and  I 
could  take  one  of  their  horses.  But  I  don't  like  to  leave 
you  with  him,  my  lady." 

"With  the  gentleman?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady.    Seeing  he  has  given  the  men  drink." 

Sophia  laughed  in  scorn.  "  You  need  not  trouble  your- 
self about  him,"  she  said.  "  We  are  not  afraid  of  him.  Be- 
sides it  is  not  as  if  I  were  alone.  There  are  three  of  us.  As 
to  the  house  opposite,  however,  that's  another  matter." 

He  was  off  his  guard.  "  Oh,  there's  no  fear  of  that!  "  he 
said. 

"  No?    But  I  thought  you  said  there  was." 

"  This  side  of  the  water,  my  lady — I  mean,"  he  answered 
hurriedly.  "  There  are  stepping-stones  you  see  a  little 
above  here;  but  they  are  covered  now,  and  the  people  can't 


come  over." 


"  You  are  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  my  lady." 

"  Then  you  had  better  go,"  Sophia  said  with  decision. 


IN   THE   VALLEY  219 

We've  had  nothing  to  eat  since  midday,  and  we  are  half 
famished.    We  cannot  stay  here  all  night." 

Watkyns  hesitated.  "  Your  ladyship  is  right,"  he  said, 
"  it  is  not  as  if  you  were  alone.  And  the  moon  will  be  up 
in  an  hour.  Still,  my  lady,  I  don't  know  as  Sir  Hervey 
would  like  me  to  leave  you?  " 

But  in  the  end  he  gave  way  and  went;  and  was  scarcely 
out  of  hearing  before  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  sent  him, 
and  would  fain,  had  it  been  possible,  have  recalled  him. 

Still  the  darkness  was  not  yet  Egyptian;  night  had  not 
yet  completely  fallen.  She  could  see  the  figures  of  Lane 
and  the  two  servants,  seated  a  score  of  paces  away  on  a  fallen 
thorn  tree,  to  which  they  had  tethered  their  horses.  She 
could  dimly  make  out  Lady  Betty's  face,  as  the  girl  sat 
beside  her  in  the  carriage,  getting  what  comfort  she  could 
from  squeezing  her  hand;  and  Pettitt's,  who  sat  with  them, 
for  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  exclude  her  in  her  state  of 
terror.  But  the  knowledge  that  by-and-by  she  would  lose 
all  this,  the  knowledge  that  by-and-by  they  must  sit  in  that 
gloomy  hollow,  ignorant  of  what  was  passing  near  them, 
and  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  comer,  began  to  fill  even  Sophia 
with  dread.  She  began  to  fear  even  Lane.  She  remembered 
that  he  had  cause  to  dislike  her;  that  he  might  harbour 
thoughts  of  revenge.  If  it  were  true  that  he  had  made  the 
men  drunk ■ 


"  It's  absurd,"  Lady  Betty  whispered,  pressing  her  hand. 
"  He  would  not  dare!  He's  just  a  clothes  peg!  You're  not 
afraid  of  him?  " 

"  No,"  Sophia  answered  bravely,  "  I  don't  know  that  I 
am  afraid  of  any  one.    Only " 

"  Only  you  wish  you  had  not  let  Watkyns  go?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So  do  I!  "  Lady  Betty  whispered  eagerly.  "  But  I  did 
not  like  to  say  so.  I  was  afraid  you  would  think  me  afraid. 
What  I  can't  make  out  is,  why  some  of  the  men  don't  go 


220  SOPHIA 

over  and  get  help  where  the  light  is,  instead  of  riding  miles 
and  miles  for  it." 

"  They  seem  to  think  that  the  people  are  not  to  be 
trusted." 

"  But  why?  What  do  they  think  that  they  are?  "  Lady 
Betty  asked  nervously. 

"I  don't  know!  Watkyns  said  something  of  smugglers 
from  Goudhurst." 

"  And  how  does  he  know?  " 

"  From  Lane,  I  suppose." 

"  Who  brought  us  here,  the  little  wretch!  There!  "  Betty 
exclaimed,  clutching  her  companion,  "what  is  that?  Oh, 
they  have  got  a  candle." 

Lane  had  produced  one  .from  his  holsters;  the  men  had 
lighted  it.  By-and-by,  he  brought  it  to  the  carnage,  shad- 
ing it  with  his  hat;  with  a  sheepish  air  he  prayed  the  ladies 
to  make  use  of  it.  Sophia  added  distrust  to  her  former  con- 
tempt of  him,  and  would  have  declined  the  gift;  but  Lady 
Betty's  trembling  hand  prayed  mutely  for  the  indulgence, 
and  she  let  him  place  it  in  the  lanthorn  in  the  carriage.  It 
conferred  a  kind  of  protection;  at  least  they  could  now  see 
one  another's  faces. 

She  soon  regretted  her  easiness,  however,  for  instead  of 
withdrawing  when  he  had  performed  the  office,  Lane  lin- 
gered beside  the  door.  He  asked  Lady  Betty  the  time,  he 
went  away  a  little,  returned,  a  flitting  shadow  on  the  fringe 
of  light;  finally  he  stood  irresolute  watching  them,  at  a 
distance  of  a  couple  of  yards.  Sophia  bore  this  as  long  as 
she  could;  at  last,  out  of  patience,  she  asked  him  coldly  if 
he  had  not  another  candle.    It  was  now  quite  dark. 

"  No,  my  lady,"  he  said  humbly,  "  I've  no  other." 

She  wished  that  she  had  bitten  her  tongue  off  before  she 
put  the  question,  for  now  it  appeared  barbarous  to  send  him 
into  the  darkness.  He  seemed,  too,  to  see  the  advantage  he 
had  gained,  and  by-and-by  he  ventured  to  take  his  seat  on  a 


7.V   THE   Y ALLEY  221 

log  beside  the  carriage.  He  cast  a.  timid  look  at  Lady  Betty, 
and  heaved  an  audible  sigh. 

If  he  hoped  to  move  that  hard  little  heart  by  sighing, 
however,  he  was  much  mistaken.  Cheered  by  the  light, 
Lady  Betty  was  herself  again.  Sophia  felt  her  begin  to 
shake,  and  knew  that  in  a  moment  the  laugh,  half  hys- 
terical, half  mirthful,  would  break  all  bounds;  and  she 
sought  to  save  the  situation.  "  Where  are  the  men?  "  she 
said  hurriedly.  "  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  ask  one  of 
them  to  come  to  me?  " 

Lane  rose,  and  went  reluctantly;  soon  he  came  stumbling 
back  into  the  circle  of  light. 

"  I  cannot  find  them,"  he  stammered,  standing  by  the 
carriage. 

"Not  find  them?"  Sophia  answered,  staring  at  him. 
"  Are  they  not  there?  " 

"  No,  my  lady,"  he  returned,  glancing  nervously  over 
his  shoulder  and  back  again.  "  At  least  I — I  can't  find 
them,  ma'am.  It  is  very  dark.  You  don't  think,"  he  con- 
tinued— and  for  the  first  time  she  discerned  by  the  poor 
light  of  the  candle  that  he  was  trembling,  "  that — that  they 
can  have  fallen  into  the  river?  " 

His  tone  alarmed  her,  even  while  she  thought  his  fears 
preposterous.  "  Fallen  into  the  river?  "  she  exclaimed  con- 
temptuously. "  Nonsense,  sir!  Are  you  trying  to  frighten 
us?  "  And  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  raised  her 
voice  and  called  "  George!    George!  " 

No  answer.  She  stepped  quickly  from  the  carriage. 
"  Take  me,"  she  said  imperiously,  "  to  where  you  left  them." 

Lady  Betty  protested;  Pettitt  clutched  at  her  habit, 
begged  her  to  stay.  But  Sophia  persisted,  and  groped  her 
way  after  Lane  until  he  came  to  a  stand,  his  hand  on  the 
bark  of  the  fallen  blackthorn,  beside  which  she  had  last 
seen  the  men.  "  They  were  here,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of 
one  half  dazed.    "  They  were.    They  were  just  here." 


222  SOPHIA 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  she  answered.  And  undeterred  by 
Pettitt's  frantic  appeals  to  her  to  return,  she  called  the  man 
again  and  again;  still  she  got  no  answer. 

At  length,  fear  of  she  knew  not  what  came  on  her,  and 
shaken  by  the  silence  of  the  valley  through  which  her  voice 
rang  mournfully,  she  hurried  back  to  the  carriage,  and 
sprang  into  it  in  a  panic;  the  man  Lane  following  close  at 
her  elbow.  It  was  only  when  she  had  taken  her  seat,  and 
found  him  clutching  the  door  of  the  carriage  and  pressing 
as  near  as  he  could  come,  that  she  saw  he  was  ashake  with 
fear;  that  his  eyes  were  staring,  his  hair  almost  on  end. 

"  They've  fallen  into  the  river,"  he  cried  wildly,  his  teeth 
chattering.  "  I  never  thought  of  that!  They  have  fallen 
in,  and  are  drowned!  " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  man!  "  Sophia  answered  sharply.  She 
was  striving  to  keep  fear  at  bay,  while  Lady  Betty  awe- 
stricken,  clung  to  her  arm.  "  We  should  have  heard  a  cry 
or  something." 

"  They  were  drunk,"  he  whispered.  "  They  were 
drunk!    And  now  they  are  dead!    They  are  dead!    Dead!" 

Pettitt  shrieked  at  the  word;  and  Sophia,  between  fear 
and  rage,  uncertain  whether  he  was  frightened  or  was  try- 
ing to  frighten  them,  bade  him  be  silent.  "  If  you  can  do 
nothing,  at  least  be  still,"  she  cried  wrathfully.  "  You  are 
worse  than  a  woman.  And  do  you,  Pettitt,  behave  your- 
self. You  should  be  taking  care  of  your  mistress,  instead 
of  scaring  her." 

The  man  so  far  obeyed  that  he  sank  on  the  step  of  the 
carriage,  and  was  silent.  But  she  heard  him  moan;  and 
despite  her  courage  she  shuddered.  Fear  is  infectious;  it 
was  in  vain  she  strove  against  the  uneasy  feelings  com- 
municated by  his  alarm.  She  caught  herself  looking  over 
her  shoulder,  starting  at  a  sound;  trembling  when  the 
candle  flickered  in  the  lanthorn  or  the  feeble  ring  of  light 
in  which  they  sat,  in  that  hollow  of  blackness,  wavered  or 


IN   THE   VALLEY  223 

varied.  By-and-by  the  candle  would  go  out;  there  was  but 
an  inch  of  it  now.  Then  they  would  be  in  the  dark;  three 
women  and  this  craven,  with  the  hidden  river  running 
silent,  bankful  beside  them,  and  she  knew  not  what,  prowl- 
ing, hovering,  groping  at  their  backs. 

On  a  sudden  Lane  sprang  up.  "  What  is  that?  "  he  cried, 
cowering  against  the  door,  and  clutching  it  as  if  he  would 
drag  it  open  and  force  himself  in  among  them.  "  See,  what 
is  it?    What  is  it?" 

But  it  was  only  the  first  shaft  of  light,  shot  by  the  rising 
moon  through  a  notch  in  the  hills,  that  had  scared  him.  It 
struck  the  thorn  tree  where  the  men  had  sat,  and  slowly 
the  slender  ray  widened  and  grew  until  all  the  upper  valley 
through  which  they  had  come  lay  bathed  in  solemn  radi- 
ance. Gradually  it  flooded  the  bottom,  and  dimmed  the 
yellow,  ineffectual  light  of  their  taper;  at  length  only  the 
ridge  beyond  the  water  remained  dark,  pierced  by  the  one 
brooding  spark  that  seemed  to  keep  grave  vigil  in  the  hill 
of  shadow. 

The  women  breathed  more  freely;  even  Pettitt  ceased  to 
bewail  herself.  "  They  will  be  back  soon,  with  the  horses," 
Sophia  said,  gazing  with  hopeful  eyes  into  the  darkness 
beyond  the  ford.  "  They  must  have  left  us  an  hour  and 
more." 

"  An  hour? "  Lady  Betty  answered  with  a  shiver. 
"  Three,  I  vow!  But  what  is  the  man  doing?  "  she  con- 
tinued, directing  Sophia's  attention  to  Lane.  "  I  declare 
he's  a  greater  coward  than  any  of  us!  " 

He  was,  if  the  fact  that  the  light  which  had  relieved 
their  fears  had  not  removed  his  stood  for  anything.  He 
seemed  afraid  to  move  a  yard  from  them;  yet  he  seldom 
looked  at  them,  save  when  a  gust  of  terror  shook  him,  and 
he  turned  as  if  to  grip  their  garments.  His  hand  on  the 
door  of  the  carriage,  he  gazed  now  along  the  valley  down 
which  they  had  come,  now  towards  the  solitary  light  beyond 


224  SOPHIA 

the  stream;  and  it  was  impossible  to  say  which  prospect 
alarmed  him  the  more.  Sophia,  whom  his  restlessness  filled 
with  apprehension,  noticed  that  he  listened;  and  that  more 
than  once,  when  Lady  Betty  spoke  or  Pettitt  complained, 
he  raised  his  hand,  as  if  he  took  the  interruption  ill.  And 
the  longer  she  watched  him,  the  more  she  was  infected  with 
his  uneasiness. 

On  a  sudden  he  turned  to  her.  "  Do  you  hear  any- 
thing? "  he  asked. 

She  listened.  "  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  hear  nothing 
but  the  wind  passing  through  the  trees." 

"Not  horses?" 

She  listened  again,  inclining  her  head  to  catch  any  sound 
that  might  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  stream.  "  No," 
she  replied,  "  I  don't." 

He  touched  her  shoulder.  "  Not  that  way! "  he  ex- 
claimed.   "Not  that  way!    Behind  us!  " 

Suddenly  Lady  Betty  spoke.  "I  do!"  she  said.  "But 
they  are  a  long  way  off.  It's  Watkyns  coming  back.  He 
must  have  found  horses,  for  I  hear  more  than  one!  " 

"  It's  not  Watkyns! "  Lane  answered  and  he  took  two 
steps  from  the  carriage,  then  came  back.  "  Get  out!  "  he 
cried  hoarsely.  "Do  you  hear?  Get  out!  Or  don't  say  I 
didn't  warn  you.  Do  you  hear?  "  he  repeated,  when  no  one 
stirred;  for  Sophia,  her  worst  suspicions  confirmed,  was 
speechless  with  surprise,  and  the  others  cowered  in  their 
places,  thinking  him  gone  mad.  "  Get  out,  get  out,  and 
hide  if  you  can.  They  are  coming! "  he  continued  wildly. 
"  I  tell  you  they  are  coming.  And  it  is  off  my  shoulders. 
In  ten  minutes  they'll  be  here,  and  if  you're  not  hidden,  it'll 
be  the  worse  for  you.    I've  told  you!  " 

"  Who  are  coming! "  Sophia  said,  her  lips  forming  the 
words  with  difficulty. 

"Hawkesworth!"  he  answered.  "  Hawkesworth!  He 
and  two  more,  as  big  devils  as  himself.    If  you  don't  want 


IN   THE    VALLEY  225 

to  be  robbed  and  worse,  hide,  hide!  Do  you  hear  me?  "  he 
continued,  pulling  frantically  at  Sophia's  habit.  "  I've  told 
you!    I've  done  all  I  can!    It's  not  on  my  head!  " 

For  an  instant  she  sat,  turned  to  stone;  deaf  to  the  cries, 
to  the  prayers,  to  the  lamentations  of  the  others.  Hawkes- 
worth?  The  mere  name  of  him,  with  whom  she  had  once 
fancied  herself  in  love,  whom  now  she  feared  and  loathed,  as 
she  feared  and  loathed  no  other  man,  stopped  the  current 
of  her  blood.  "  Hawkesworth,"  she  whispered,  "  Hawkes- 
worth?    Here?    Following  us?    Do  you  mean  it?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you?"  Lane  answered  with  angry 
energy.  "  He  was  at  Grinstead,  at  the  White  Lion,  last 
night.  I  saw  him,  and — and  the  woman.  You'd  made  me 
mad,  you  know,  and — and  they  tempted  me!  They  tempted 
me!  "  he  whined.  "  And  they're  coming.  Can't  you  hear 
them  now?    They  are  coming!  " 

Yes,  she  could  hear  them  now.  In  the  far  distance  up 
the  valley  the  steady  fall  of  horses'  hoofs  broke  the  night 
silence.  Steadily,  steadily,  the  hoof-beats  drew  nearer  and 
nearer.  Now  they  were  hushed;  the  riders  were  crossing  a 
spongy  bit,  where  a  spring  soaked  the  road — Sophia  could 
remember  the  very  place.  Now  the  sound  rose  louder, 
nearer,  more  fateful.  Trot-trot,  trot-trot,  trot-trot!  Yes, 
they  were  coming.  They  were  coming!  In  five  minutes,  in 
ten  minutes  at  most  they  would  be  here! 

It  was  a  crisis  to  try  the  bravest.  Eound  them  the  moon- 
light flooded  the  low  wide  mouth  of  the  valley.  As  far  as 
the  eye  reached,  all  was  bare  and  shelterless.  A  few  scat- 
tered thorn  trees,  standing  singly  and  apart,  mocked  the  eye 
with  a  promise  of  safety,  which  a  second  glance  showed  to 
be  futile.  The  only  salient  object  was  the  carriage  stranded 
beside  the  ford,  a  huge  dark  blot,  betraying  their  presence 
to  eyes  a  furlong  away.  Yet  if  they  left  its  shelter,  whither 
were  they  to  turn,  where  to  hide  themselves?  Sophia,  her 
heart  beating  as  if  it  would  suffocate  her,  tried  to  think, 
15 


226  SOPHIA 

tried  to  remember;  while  Lady  Betty  clung  to  her  convul- 
sively, asking  what  they  were  to  do,  and  Pettitt,  utterly 
overcome,  sobbed  at  the  bottom  of  the  carriage,  as  if  she 
were  safer  there. 

And  all  the  time  the  tramp  of  the  approaching  horses, 
borne  on  the  night  breeze,  came  clearer  and  sharper,  clearer 
and  sharper  to  the  ear;  until  she  could  distinguish  the  ring 
of  bit  and  bridle  as  the  men  descended  the  valley.  She 
looked  at  Lane.  The  craven  was  panic-stricken,  caught 
hither  and  thither,  by  gusts  of  cowardice;  there  was  no  help 
there.  Her  eye  passed  to  the  river,  and  her  heart  leapt,  for 
in  the  shadowed  bank  on  the  other  side  she  read  hope  and  a 
chance.  There  in  the  darkness  they  could  hide;  there — if 
only  they  could  find  the  stepping-stones  which  Watkyns 
had  said  were  upstream. 

Quick  as  thought  she  had  Lady  Betty  out,  and  seizing  her 
woman  by  the  shoulder,  shook  her  impatiently.  "  Come," 
she  cried,  "  come,  we  must  run.  We  must  run!  Come,  or 
we  shall  leave  you." 

But  Pettitt  only  grovelled  lower  on  the  floor,  deaf  to 
prayers,  orders,  threats.  At  last,  "  We  must  leave  her," 
Sophia  cried,  when  she  had  wasted  a  precious  minute  in  vain 
appeals.  "  Come!  We  must  find  the  stepping-stones.  It  is 
the  only  chance." 

"  But  is  the  danger — so  great?  "  the  child  panted. 

"It's — oh,  come!  Come!'1  Sophia  groaned.  "You 
don't  understand."  And  seizing  Lady  Betty  by  the  hand 
she  ran  with  her  to  the  water's  edge,  and  in  breathless  haste 
turned  up  the  stream.  They  had  gone  twenty  yards  along 
the  bank,  the  elder's  eyes  searching  the  dark  full  current, 
when  Sophia  stopped  as  if  she  had  been  shot.  "  The 
jewels!"  she  gasped. 

"  The  jewels?  " 

"  Yes,  I've  left  them." 

"Oh,  never  mind  them  now!"  Betty  wailed,  "never 


IN    THE    VALLEY  227 

mind  them  now! "  and  she  caught  at  her  to  stay  her,  but 
in  vain.  Already  Sophia  was  half-way  back  to  the  carriage. 
She  vanished  inside  it;  in  an  incredibly  short  space — 
though  it  seemed  long  to  Betty,  trembling  with  impatience 
and  searching  the  valley  with  eyes  of  dread — she  was  out 
again  with  the  jewel-case  in  her  hand,  and  flying  back  to 
her  companion.  "They  are  his!"  she  muttered,  as  she 
urged  her  on  again.  "  I  couldn't  leave  them.  Now,  the 
stones!  The  stepping-stones!  Oh,  child,  use  your  eyes! 
Find  them,  or  we  are  lost! " 

The  fear  of  Hawkesworth  lay  heavy  on  her;  she  felt 
that  she  should  die  if  his  hand  touched  her.  It  was  unfort- 
unate that  all  the  bank  on  which  they  stood  was  light;  it 
was  in  their  favour  that  the  moon  had  now  risen  high 
enough  to  shine  on  the  stream.  They  ran  fifty  yards  with- 
out seeing  a  sign  of  what  they  sought.  Then — at  the  very 
moment  when  the  pursuers'  voices  broke  on  their  ears,  and 
they  realised  that  in  a  minute  or  two  they  must  be  espied — 
they  came  to  a  couple  of  thorn  trees,  standing  not  far  apart, 
that  afforded  a  momentary  shelter.  A  yard  farther,  and 
Lady  Betty  stumbled  over  something  that  lay  in  the  shadow 
of  the  trees.  She  recoiled  with  a  cry.  "  It's  a  man!  "  she 
murmured. 

"  The  groonis! "  Sophia  answered,  her  wits  sharpened 
by  necessity;  and  she  felt  for  and  shook  one  of  the  sleep- 
ers, tugged  at  his  clothes,  even  buffeted  him  in  a  frenzy  of 
impatience.  "  George!  George!  "  she  muttered;  and  again 
she  shook  him.  But  in  vain;  and  as  quickly  as  she  had 
knelt  she  was  on  foot  again,  and  had  drawn  the  child  on. 
"Drugged!"  she  muttered.  "They  are  drugged!  We 
must  cross!    We  must  cross!    It's  our  one  chance!  " 

She  hurried  her  on,  bending  low;  for  beyond  the  two 
thorn  trees  all  lay  bare  and  open.  Suddenly  a  cry  rent  the 
night;  an  oath,  and  a  woman's  scream  followed  and  told 
them  that  their  flight  was  known.     Their  hands  clasped, 


228  HO  PHI  A 

their  knees  shaking  under  them,  they  pressed  on,  reckless 
now,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  footsteps  behind 
them.  And  joy!  Sophia  nearly  swooned,  as  she  saw  not 
five  yards  ahead  of  them  a  ripple  of  broken  water  that  ran 
slantwise  across  the  silver;  and  in  a  line  with  it  a  foot  above 
the  surface,  a  rope  stretched  taut  from  bank  to  bank. 

The  stones  were  covered,  all  save  one;  but  the  rope  prom- 
ised a  passage,  more  easy  than  she  had  dared  to  expect. 
"  Will  you  go  first, or  shall  I?  "  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue; 
but  Lady  Betty  wasted  no  time  on  words.  She  was  already  in 
the  water,  and  wading  across,  her  hands  sliding  along  the 
rope,  her  petticoats  floating  out  on  the  surface  of  the  cur- 
rent. The  water  was  cold,  and  though  it  rose  no  higher 
than  her  knees,  ran  with  a  force  that  but  for  the  rope  must 
have  swept  her  oft'  her  feet.  She  reached  the  middle  in 
safety,  however,  and  Sophia  who  dared  not  throw  the 
weight  of  two  on  the  rope,  was  tingling  to  follow,  when  the 
dreaded  sound  of  feet  on  the  bank  warned  her  of  danger. 
She  turned  her  head  sharply.  A  man  stood  within  five 
paces  of  her. 

A  pace  nearer,  and  Sophia  would  have  flung  herself  into 
the  stream!  heedless  of  the  rope,  heedless  of  all  but  the 
necessity  of  escape.  In  the  nick  of  time,  however,  she  saw 
that  it  was  not  Hawkesworth  who  had  found  her,  but  Lane 
the  poor  rogue  who  had  ruined  them.  In  a  low  harsh  voice, 
she  bade  him  keep  his  distance. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do!"  he  faltered,  wringing  his 
hands  and  looking  back  in  terror.  "  They'll  murder  me! 
I  know  they  will!  But  there's  smallpox  the  other  side! 
You're  going  into  it!  There  are  three  dead  in  the  house, 
and  everybody's  fled.    I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  he  whined. 

Sophia  answered  nothing,  but  slid  into  the  stream  and 
waded  across.  As  she  drew  her  wet  skirts  out  of  the  water, 
and,  helped  by  Lady  Betty,  climbed  the  bank,  she  heard  the 
chase  come  down  the  side  she  had  left;  and  thankful  for  the 


LADY   BETTY   WASTED    NO   TIME   ON   WORDS.       SHE   WAS   ALREADY   IN   THE 
WATER   AND   WADING   ACROSS 


IN   THE   VALLEY  229 

deep  shadow  in  which  they  stood,  she  pressed  the  girl's 
hand  to  enjoin  silence,  as  step  by  step  they  groped  their 
way  from  the  place.  To  go  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
crossing  was  her  object;  her  fear  that  a  stumble  or  a  rolling 
stone — for  the  side  of  the  ridge  below  the  houses  was  steep 
and  rough — would  discover  their  position.  Fortunately  the 
darkness  which  lay  there  was  deepened  by  contrast  with  the 
moonlit  country  on  the  farther  side;  and  they  crept  some 
forty  yards  along  the  hill  before  they  were  brought  up  short 
by  a  wattled  fence.  They  would  have  climbed  this,  but  as 
they  laid  hands  on  it  they  heard  men  shouting,  and  saw 
two  figures  hurry  along  the  opposite  bank,  and  come  to  a 
stand,  at  the  point  where  they  had  crossed.  A  moment 
Sophia  hung  in  suspense;  then  Hawkesworth's  voice  thrilled 
her  with  terror.  "  Over! "  he  cried.  "  Over,  fool,  and 
watch  the  top!  "  And  she  heard  the  splashing  of  a  horse  as 
it  crossed  the  ford,  and  the  thud  of  its  hoofs  as  it  dashed  up 
the  road. 

The  two  fugitives  had  turned  instinctively  down  stream, 
in  the  direction  of  the  road  and  the  houses.  The  rider's 
movement  up  the  road  therefore  tended  to  cut  off  their 
farther  retreat;  while  the  distance  they  had  been  able  to 
put  between  themselves  and  the  stepping-stones  was  so  short 
that  they  dared  not  move  again,  much  less  make  the  at- 
tempt to  repass  their  landing-place,  and  go  up  stream.  For 
the  moment,  close  as  they  were  to  their  enemies,  the  dark- 
ness shielded  them;  but  Sophia's  heart  beat  thickly,  and  she 
crouched  lower  against  the  wattle  as  she  heard  Hawkes- 
worth  step  into  the  stream  and  splash  his  way  across,  swear- 
ing at  the  coldness  of  the  water. 


CHAPTEK  XVIII 

KING    SMALLPOX 

He  drew  himself  out  on  their  side  and  shook  himself;  then 
for  a  time  it  seemed  that  the  earth  had  swallowed  him,  so 
still  was  he.  But  Sophia  knew  that  he  was  listening,  stand- 
ing in  the  dark  a  few  paces  from  them,  in  the  hope  of  hear- 
ing the  rustle  of  their  skirts  or  their  footsteps  as  they  stole 
away.  Disappointed  in  this  he  began  to  move  to  and  fro, 
beating  the  bushes  this  way  and  that;  now  loudly  threaten- 
ing them  with  horrid  penalties  if  they  did  not  show  them- 
selves, now  asserting  that  he  saw  them,  and  now  calling 
to  his  fellow  who  kept  guard  on  the  farther  bank  to  know 
if  he  heard  them.  It  was  clear  that  he  knew,  probably 
from  Pettitt,  that  they  had  not  had  time  to  go  far  from  the 
carriage. 

Fortunately  the  trend  of  his  search  was  from  them,  and 
as  he  receded  up  stream  they  breathed  more  freely.  But 
when  the  sound  of  his  movements  was  beginning  to  grow 
faint,  and  Sophia  to  think  of  continuing  their  flight,  he 
turned,  and  she  heard  him  come  back  on  his  tracks.  This 
time,  if  the  ear  could  be  trusted,  he  was  making  directly 
for  the  place  where  they  cowered  beside  the  wattle  fence. 

Yes,  he  was  drawing  nearer — and  nearer;  now  a  stick 
snapped  under  his  foot,  now  he  stumbled  and  swore,  as  he 
recovered  himself.  Sophia  felt  the  younger  girl  shake 
under  her  hand,  and  instinctively  drew  the  child's  face 
against  her  shoulder  that  she  might  not  see.  Presently  she 
could  make  out  his  head  and  shoulders  dark  against  the  sky; 

230 


KING   SMALLPOX  231 

and  still  she  watched  him,  fascinated.  Three  more  steps 
and  he  would  be  on  them!  Two  more — the  impulse  to 
shriek,  to  spring  up  and  fly  at  all  risks  was  scarcely  to  be 
controlled.  One  more — there  was  a  sudden  rustle,  a  fathom 
below  them,  he  sprang  that  way,  something  whisked  from  a 
gorse-bush,  and  he  stood. 

"  What  was  it?  "  cried  the  man  on  the  other  side. 

"A  rabbit!"  he  answered  with  an  oath.  "So  they're 
not  this  way.  I  don't  believe  they  crossed.  Are  you  sure 
they're  not  in  that  thorn  tree  behind  you?  One  of  them 
might  hide  in  it." 

Apparently  the  man  went  to  see,  for  half  a  minute  later, 
a  shriek,  followed  by  a  thud,  as  of  a  heavy  body  brought 
hurriedly  to  earth,  proved  the  success  of  his  search. 
Hawkesworth  sprang  towards  the  stepping-stones. 

"Which  is  it?  "he  cried. 

"  Neither,"  the  fellow  answered.  "  It's  the  whipper- 
snapper  you  sent  for  a  decoy." 

"D n  it!"  Hawkesworth  exclaimed,  and  he  came 

to  a  stand.  "  But  if  you've  got  him,  they  are  not  far  off. 
We'll  wring  his  neck  if  he  does  not  say  where  they  are! 
Prick  him,  man,  prick  him  with  your  knife." 

But  the  poor  fop's  squeals  showed  that  little  cruelty 
would  be  needed  to  draw  from  him  all  he  knew.  "  Don't! 
Don't!"  he  screamed.  "They're  on  the  other  side!  I 
swear  they  are!  " 

"None  of  your  lies  now,  or  I'll  slit  your  throat!"  the 
ruffian  growled.  He  appeared  to  be  kneeling  on  Lane's 
breast. 

"It's  the  truth!  I  swear  it  is!  They  were  just  across 
when  you  came!  "  Lane  cried.  "  They  can't  be  fifty  yards 
from  the  bank!  If  they'd  moved  I  should  have  seen  them. 
Let  me  up,  and  I'll  help  you  to  find  them." 

"  Tie  him  up,"  Hawkesworth  cried.  "  Tie  him  up.  And 
if  he's  lied  to  us,  we  shall  soon  know.    If  we  don't  find  them, 


232:  SOPHIA 

we'll  drop  him  in  the  water.  Tell  him  that,  and  ask  him 
again." 

"  They're  by  you!  "  Lane  cried.    "  I  swear  they  are!  " 

Sophia  felt,  she  could  not  see,  that  Hawkesworth  was 
peering  round  him.  Even  now  he  was  not  more  than  ten 
or  twelve  paces  from  them;  but  the  gorse-bush,  from  which 
the  rabbit  had  darted,  formed  a  black  blurr  against  the 
fence,  and  deepened  the  obscurity  in  which  they  lay.  Un- 
less he  came  on  them  they  were  safe;  but  at  any  moment  he 
might  discover  the  fence,  and  guess  it  had  brought  them  up, 
and  beat  along  it.  And — and  while  she  thought  of  this  she 
heard  him  chuckle. 

"  Be  still,  man,"  he  cried  to  the  other,  "  and  keep  your 
ears  open.  The  moon  will  be  over  the  hill  in  five  minutes, 
and  we'll  have  them  safe,  if  they  are  here.  Meantime,  stand 
and  listen,  will  you?  or  they  may  creep  off." 

Sophia  swallowed  a  sob.  It  seemed  so  hard — so  hard 
after  all  they  had  done  to  escape — that  nature  itself  should 
turn  against  them.  Yet,  it  was  so;  the  man  was  right. 
Already  the  moonlight  touched  the  crest  of  a  gorse-bush 
that  grew  a  little  higher  than  its  neighbours;  and  overhead 
the  sky  was  growing  bright  where  the  ridge  line  cut  it.  In 
five  minutes  the  disc  of  the  moon,  sailing  high,  would  rise 
above  that  spot,  and  all  the  hill  side,  that  now  lay  veiled  in 
shadow,  would  be  flooded  with  light.    Then 

She  shuddered,  watching  paralysed  the  oncoming  of  this 
new  and  inexorable  foe.  Slowly  the  light  was  creeping 
down  the  gorse-bush.  Minute  by  minute,  sure  as  the  tide 
that  surges  to  the  lips  of  the  stranded  mariner,  the  pale 
rays  silvered  this  spray  and  that  spray,  dark  before;  touched 
the  fence,  and  now  lay  a  narrow  streak  along  the  nearer 
margin  of  the  stream.  And  the  streak  widened;  not  slowly 
now  but  quickly.  Even  while  she  watched  it,  from  the 
shelter  of  the  fence,  feeling  her  heart  beat  sickening  bumps 
against  her  side,  the  light  crept  nearer  and  nearer.  In  three 
or  four  minutes  it  would  be  upon  them. 


KING   SMALLPOX  233 

Sophia  was  brave,  but  there  was  something  in  the  sure 
and  stealthy  approach  of  this  danger  that  sapped  her  will, 
and  robbed  her  limbs  of  strength.  Unable  to  think,  unable 
to  act,  she  crouched  panic-stricken  where  she  was;  as  the 
hare  surprised  in  her  form  awaits  the  hunter's  hand.  Until 
only  a  minute  remained;  then  with  a  groan  she  shook  off 
the  spell.  To  run,  even  to  be  caught  running,  was  better 
than  to  be  taken  so.  But  whither  could  they  run  with  the 
least  chance  of  escape?  She  turned  her  head  to  see,  and 
her  eyes,  despairing,  climbed  the  slope  behind  her  until  they 
rested  on  the  faint  yellow  spark  that,  solemn  and  un- 
changed, shone  from  the  window  of  the  dark  house  on  the 
crest. 

That  way  lay  some  chance,  a  desperate  chance.  She 
warned  Lady  Betty  by  a  touch.  "We  must  run!"  she 
breathed  in  the  girl's  ear.  "  Look  at  the  fence,  and  when 
I  tap  your  shoulder,  climb  over,  and  run  to  the  house! '; 

Lady  Betty  disengaged  herself  softly  and  nodded.  Then, 
as  if  she  was  granted  some  new  insight  into  the  character  of 
the  woman  whose  arms  were  round  her,  as  if  she  saw  more 
clearly  than  before  the  other's  courage,  and  understood  the 
self-denial  that  gave  her  the  first  and  better  chance,  she 
drew  Sophia's  face  to  her,  and  clinging  to  her,  kissed  it. 
Then  she  crouched,  waiting,  waiting,  her  eyes  on  the  fence. 

Very,  very  gently  Sophia  lifted  her  head,  saw  that 
Hawkesworth  was  looking  the  other  way,  and  gave  the 
signal.  Betty,  nimble  and  active,  was  over  in  a  moment 
unseen,  unheard.  Sophia  followed,  but  the  fence  creaked 
under  her,  and  Hawkesworth  heard  it  and  turned.  He 
saw  her  poised  on  the  fence,  in  the  full  moonlight,  so  that 
not  a  line  of  her  figure  escaped  him;  with  a  yell  of  triumph 
he  darted  towards  her.  But  directly  in  his  path  lay  a  low 
gorse-bush,  still  in  shadow.  He  did  not  see  it,  tripped  over 
it,  and  fell  all  his  length  'on  the  grass.  By  the  time  he  was 
up  again,  the  two  were  dim  flying  shadows,  all  but  lost  in 
the  darkness  that  lay  beyond  the  fence. 


234  SOPHIA 

All  but  lost;  not  quite.  In  three  seconds  he  was  at  the 
fence,  he  was  over  it,  he  was  beginning  to  gain  on  them. 
They  strained  every  nerve,  but  they  had  to  breast  the  steep 
side  of  the  hill,  and  though  fear  and  the  horror  of  his  hand 
upon  their  shoulders  gave  them  wings,  breath  was  lack- 
ing. Then  Betty  fell,  and  lost  a  precious  yard;  and  though 
she  was  up  again,  and  panting  onwards  gallantly,  for  a  few 
seconds  he  thought  that  he  would  catch  them  with  ease. 
Then  the  ascent  began  to  tell  on  him  also.  The  fall  had 
shaken  him.  He  began  to  pant  and  labour;  he  saw  that  he 
was  not  gaining  on  them,  but  rather  losing  ground,  and  he 
slackened  his  pace,  and  shouted  to  the  man  on  guard  in 
the  road  above,  bidding  him  stop  them. 

The  man  with  an  answering  shout  reined  back  his  horse 
to  the  narrow  pass  where  the  road  ran  between  the  house 
and  the  cottages.  There,  peering  forward,  he  made  ready 
to  intercept  them.  Fortunately,  the  moon,  above  and  a 
little  behind  him,  showed  his  figure  in  silhouette  in  the 
gap;  and  Sophia  clutching  Betty's  hand,  dragged  her  back 
at  the  moment  she  was  stepping  into  the  moonlit  road.  An 
instant  the  two  listened,  trembling,  palpitating,  staring, 
like  game  driven  into  the  middle  of  the  field.  But  behind 
them  Hawkesworth's  scrambling  footsteps  and  heavy 
breathing  still  came  on;  they  could  not  wait.  A  moment's 
sickening  doubt,  and  Sophia  pressed  Betty's  hand,  and  the 
two  darted  together  across  the  road,  and  took  cover  in  a 
space  still  dark,  between  the  two  cottages  that  flanked  it 
on  the  farther  side. 

The  man  in  the  gap  gave  the  alarm,  shouting  that  they 
had  crossed  the  road;  and  Hawkesworth,  coming  up  out  of 
breath,  asked  with  a  volley  of  curses  why  he  had  not  stopped 
them. 

"Because  they  did  not  come  my  way!"  the  fellow  an- 
swered bluntly.    "  Why  didn't  you  catch  'em,  captain?  " 

"  Where  are  they?  "  Hawkesworth  panted  fiercely. 


KING   SMALLPOX  235 

"  Straight  over  they  went.  No!  Between  the  hovels 
here!" 

But  Hawkesworth  had  a  little  recovered  his  breath,  and 
with  it  his  cunning.  Instead  of  following  his  prey  into  the 
dark  space  between  the  buildings,  he  darted  round  the 
other  side  of  the  lower  cottage,  and  in  a  twinkling  was  on 
the  open  slope  beyond.  Here  the  moonlight  fell  evenly, 
the  hillside  was  clear  of  gorse,  he  could  see  a  hundred  yards. 
But  he  caught  no  glimpse  of  fleeing  figures,  he  heard  no 
sound  of  retiring  footsteps;  and  quick  as  thought  he  turned 
up  the  hill,  and  learned  the  reason. 

A  high  wall  ran  from  cottage  to  cottage,  rendering  exit 
that  way  impossible.  Sophia  had  trapped  herself  and  her 
companion;  they  were  in  a  cul  de  sac!  With  a  cry  of 
triumph  he  turned  to  go  back;  as  he  ran  he  heard  the  horse- 
man he  had  left  call  to  him.  Opportunely,  as  he  gained  the 
road,  he  was  joined  by  the  third  of  the  band,  the  rogue  he 
had  left  at  the  stepping  stones. 

"  Have  you  nabbed  them?  "  the  fellow  panted. 

"  They're  here!  "  Hawkesworth  answered.  "  I  think  he's 
got  them." 

"  And  the  sparklers  ?  " 

Hawkesworth  nodded;  but  the  next  instant  swore  and 
stood.  The  man  on  the  horse,  who  should  have  been  guard- 
ing the  mouth  of  the  dark  entry,  where  the  girls  lay  trapped, 
was  a  dozen  yards  farther  up  the  road,  his  back  to  the  cot- 
tages, and  his  face  to  the  house  with  the  gable  end. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing?  "  Hawkesworth  roared. 
"  They  are  here,  man!  " 

"  They  have  bolted !  "  the  fellow  answered  sullenly.  "  Or 
one  of  them  has.  She  shook  a  shawl  in  this  brute's  face, 
and  he  reared.    Before  I  could  get  him  round " 

"  She  got  off  ?  "  the  Irishman  shrieked. 

"  No!  She's  here,  in  the  house!  Burn  her,  when  I  get 
hold  of  her  I'll  make  her  smart  for  it!  " 


236  SOPHIA 

"  She?    Then  where's  the  other?  " 

"  She's  where  she  was,  for  all  I  know/'  the  man  answered. 
"  I've  seen  nothing  of  her." 

But  he  lied  in  that.  While  he  had  been  marking  down 
the  woman  who  had  frightened  his  horse  with  her  shawl — 
and  who  then  had  glided  coolly  into  the  house,  the  door  of 
which  stood  ajar — he  had  seen  with  the  tail  of  his  eye  a 
flying  skirt  vanish  down  the  road  behind  him.  He  had  a 
notion  that  one  had  got  clear,  but  he  was  not  sure;  and  if  he 
said  anything  he  would  be  blamed.  So  he  stood  while 
Hawkesworth  and  the  other  searched  the  dark  space  be- 
tween the  cottages. 

A  few  seconds  sufficed  to  show  that  there  was  no  one 
there,  and  Hawkesworth  turned  and  swore  at  him. 

"Well,  there's  one  left!  "  the  offender  answered  sulkily. 
"  We've  got  her  in  the  house,  and  there's  no  back  door. 
Take  your  change  out  of  her." 

"  Aye,  but  who's  going  in  to  fetch  her?  "  Hawkesworth 
snarled.  "  I've  not  had  the  smallpox.  Perhaps  you  have. 
In  that  case,  in  you  go,  man.  You  run  no  risk,  or  but 
little." 

The  rogue's  face  fell.  "  Oh  Lord!  "  he  said.  "  I'd  not 
thought  of  that!    What  a  vixen  it  is!  " 

"  In  you  go,  man,  and  have  her  out !  " 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  do! "  was  the  answer;  and  the  fellow 
reined  back  his  horse  in  a  hurry.  "  Faugh !  I  can  smell  the 
vinegar  from  here!  "  he  cried.    And  he  spat  on  the  ground. 

"  Will  you  go,  Clipper?    Come,  man,  you're  not  afraid?  " 

But  Clipper,  the  third  of  the  band,  so  called  because  he 
had  once  lain  in  the  condemned  hold  for  the  offence  of  re- 
ducing His  Majesty's  gold  coin,  declined  in  terms  not  doubt- 
ful; and  for  a  few  seconds  the  three  glared  at  one  another, 
rage  in  the  greater  villain's  eyes,  a  dogged  resolution,  not 
unmingled  with  shame,  in  his  hirelings'.  To  be  baffled, 
and  by  a  girl!    To  have  her  at  bay,  and  fear  the  encounter! 


& 


KING   SMALLPOX  237 

To  be  outwitted, outdared, and  by  a  woman!  The  moonlight 
that  lay  on  the  lonely  country  side,  the  night  wind  that 
stirred  the  willows  by  the  stream,  the  height  of  blue  above 
them  with  its  myriad  watching  eyes,  these  things  had  no 
awe  for  them,  touched  no  chord  in  their  dulled  consciences; 
but  the  smoky  yellow  gleam  that  shone  from  the  window  of 
the  dark  gable,  and  was  visible  where  two  of  them  stood — 
that  and  the  dread  terror  that  lay  behind  it  scared  even 
these  hardened  men. 

"  Will  you  let  all  go  ? "'  Hawkesworth  cried  in  rage. 
"  We  have  the  girl,  and  not  a  soul  within  four  miles 
to  interfere!  We've  jewels  to  the  tune  of  thousands!  And 
you'll  let  them  go  when  it's  only  to  pick  them  up!  " 

"  Aye,  and  the  smallpox  with  them !  "  Clipper  retorted 
grimly.  "  I've  seen  a  man  that  died  of  that,"  with  a  shud- 
der, "  and  I  don't  want  to  see  another.  Go  yourself,  cap- 
tain," he  sneered,  "  it's  your  business," 

The  thrust  went  home.  "  So  I  will,  by !  "  the  Irish- 
man cried  passionately.  "I'll  have  her  out,  and  the  stuff! 
But  I'll  think  twice  before  I  pay  you,  you  lily-livers!  You 
chicken  hearts.    Give  me  a  light!  " 

"  There's  light  enough  upstairs!  "  the  Clipper  answered 
mockingly.  But  the  other  man,  more  amenable,  produced 
a  flint  and  steel  and  a  candle  end,  and  lighting  the  one 
from  the  other  handed  it  to  Hawkesworth.  "  Likely  enough 
you'll  find  her  behind  the  door,  captain,"  he  said  civilly. 
"  'Twon't  be  much  risk  after  all." 

"  Then  go  yourself,  you  cur,"  Hawkesworth  answered 
brutally.  He  was  torn  this  way  and  that;  between  fear 
and  rage,  cupidity  and  cowardice.  The  ardour  of  the  chase 
grew  cool  in  this  atmosphere  of  disease;  the  courage  of  the 
man  failed  before  this  house  given  up  to  the  fell  plague, 
that  in  those  days  took  pitiless  toll  of  rich  and  poor,  of  old 
and  young,  of  withered  cheeks  and  bright  eyes,  of  kings  and 
joiners'  daughters.     His  gorge  rose  at  the  sharp  scent  of 


238  SOPHIA 

vinegar,  at  the  duller  odour  of  burnt  rags  with  which  the  air 
was  laden;  they  were  the  rough  disinfectants  of  the  time, 
used  before  the  panic-stricken  survivors  fled  the  place.  In 
face  of  the  danger  he  had  to  confront,  women  have  ever 
been  bolder  than  men,  though  they  have  more  to  lose.  He 
was  no  exception. 

Yet  he  would  go.  To  flinch  was  to  be  lessened  for  ever 
in  the  eyes  of  the  meaner  villains,  his  hirelings;  to  dare 
was  to  confirm  the  evil  pre-eminence  he  claimed.  Bitter 
black  rage  in  his  heart — rage  in  especial  against  the  woman 
who  laid  this  necessity  upon  him — he  thrust  the  door  wide 
open,  and  shielding  the  candle,  of  which  the  light  but  feebly 
irradiated  the  black  cavern  before  him,  he  crossed  the 
threshold. 

The  place  he  entered  seemed  all  dark  to  eyes  fresh  from 
the  moonbeams;  but  some  light  there  was  beside  that  which 
he  carried.  From  the  open  door  of  a  narrow  staircase  that  led 
to  the  upper  rooms  a  faint  reflection  of  the  candles  that 
burned  above  issued;  by  aid  of  which  he  saw  that  he  stood 
in  the  great  kitchen  of  the  farm.  But  the  black  pot  that 
tenanted  the  vast  gloomy  recess  of  the  fireplace,  hung  over 
dead,  white  ashes — cold  relics  of  the  cheer  that  had  once 
reigned  there.  The  cradle  in  the  corner  was  still  and 
shrouded.  In  the  middle  of  the  stone  floor  a  bench,  a  mere 
slab  on  four  straddling  legs,  lay  overturned,  upset  by  the 
panic-stricken  survivors  in  their  hurried  flight;  and  beside 
it,  stiff  and  grinning,  sprawled  the  body  of  a  black  cat,  killed 
in  some  frenzy  of  fear  or  superstition  ere  the  living  left  the 
house  to  the  care  of  the  dead.  A  brooding  odour  of  dis- 
ease filled  the  gaunt,  wide-raftered  room,  infected  the  shad- 
owy hanging  flitches,  and  grew  stronger  and  more  sickly 
towards  the  staircase  at  the  farther  end. 

Yet  it  was  there  he  saw  her,  as  he  paused  uncertain,  his 
heart  like  water.  She  was  standing  on  the  lowest  step  of  the 
stairs  as  if  she  had  retreated  thither  on  his  entrance.    Her 


KING   SMALLPOX  239 

one  hand  held  her  skirt  a  little  from  the  floor,  and  close  to 
her;  the  other  hung  by  her  side.  Her  eyes  shone  large  in 
her  white  face;  and  in  her  look  and  in  her  attitude  was 
something  solemn  and  unearthly,  that  for  a  moment  awed 
him. 

He  stared  spell-bound.  She  was  the  first  to  speak. 
"What  do  you  want?"  she  whispered — as  if  the  dead  in 
the  room  above  could  hear  her. 

"  The  jewels! "  he  muttered,  his  voice  subdued  to  the 
pitch  of  hers.  "  The  jewels!  Give  me  the  jewels,  and  I 
will  go! " 

"  They  are  not  here,"  she  said.  "  They  are  far  away. 
Here  is  only  death.  Death  is  here,  death  is  above,"  she 
continued  solemnly.  "The  air  is  full  of  death.  If  you 
would  not  die,  go!    Go  before  it  be  too  late." 

He  battled  with  the  dark  fear  which  her  words  fluttered 
before  him;  the  fear  that  was  in  the  air  of  the  room,  the  fear 
that  made  his  light  burn  more  dimly  than  was  natural. 
He  battled  with  it,  and  hated  her  for  it,  and  for  his  coward- 
ice.   "  You  she-devil!  "  he  cried,  "  where  are  the  jewels?  " 

"  Gone,"  she  answered  solemnly. 

"Where?" 

"  Where  you  will  never  find  them." 

"And  you  think  to  get  off  with  that?"  he  hissed;  and 
advanced  a  step  towards  her.  "You  lie!"  he  cried  furi- 
ously. "  You  have  them.  And  if  you  do  not  give  them 
up " 

"I  have  them  not!  "  she  answered  firmly;  and  little  did 
he  suspect  how  wildly  her  heart  was  leaping  behind  the  bold 
front  she  showed  him.  Little  did  he  suspect  the  deadly 
terror 'she  had  had  to  surmount  before  she  penetrated  so  far 
into  this  loathsome  house.  "I  have  them  not,"  she  re- 
peated. "  Nor  have  I  any  fear  of  you.  There  is  that  here 
that  is  your  master  and  mine.  Come  up,  come  up,"  she  con- 
tinued, a  touch  of  wildness  in  her  manner,  and  she  mounted 


240  SOPHIA 

a  step  or  two  of  the  narrow  staircase,  and  beckoned  him  to 
follow  her.    "  Come  up  and  you  will  see  him." 

"  You  drab! "  he  cried,  "  do  you  come  down,  or  it  will 
be  the  worse  for  you!  Do  you  hear  me?  Come  down,  you 
slut,  or  when  I  fetch  you  I  will  have  no  mercy.  You  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  to  you;  I  do,  and " 

He  stood,  he  was  silent,  he  choked  with  rage;  for  as  if 
he  had  not  spoken,  her  figure  first  and  then  her  feet,  mount- 
ing without  pause  or  hesitation,  vanished  from  sight.  He 
was  left,  scared  and  baffled,  alone  in  the  great  desolate 
kitchen  where  his  light  shone  a  mere  spark,  making  visible 
the  darkness  that  canopied  him.  A  rat  moving  in  the  dim 
fringe  between  light  and  shadow  startled  him.  A  rope  of 
onions  swayed  by  the  draught  of  air  that  blew  through  the 
open  door,  brought  the  sweat  to  his  brow.  He  took  two 
steps  forward  and  one  backward;  the  shroud  on  the  cradle 
fluttered,  and  but  for  the  men  waiting  outside,  he  would 
have  fled  at  once  and  given  up  woman  and  booty.  But  fear 
of  ridicule  still  conquered  fear  of  death;  conquered  even 
the  superstition  that  lay  dormant  in  his  Irish  blood;  he 
forced  himself  onward.  His  eyes  fixed  balefully,  his  hands 
withheld  from  contact  with  the  wall— as  if  he  had  been  a 
woman  with  skirts — he  crept  upwards  till  his  gaze  rose 
above  the  level  of  the  upper  floor;  then  for  a  moment  the 
light  of  two  thick  candles,  half -burned,  gave  him  back  his 
courage.  His  brow  relaxed,  he  sprang  with  a  cry  up  the 
upper  stairs,  set  his  foot  in  the  room  and  stood! 

On  the  huge  low  wooden  bed  from  which  the  coarse 
blue  and  white  bedding  protruded,  two  bodies  lay  sheeted. 
At  their  feet  the  candles  burned  dull  before  the  window 
that  should  have  been  open,  but  was  shut;  as  the  thick 
noisome  air  of  the  room,  that  turned  him  sick  and  faint, 
told  him.  Near  the  bed,  on  the  farther  side,  stood  that 
he  sought;  Sophia,  her  eyes  burning,  her  face  like  paper. 
His  prey  then  was  there,  there,  within  his  reach;  but  she 


KING   HMALLPOX  241 

had  not  spoken  without  reason.  Death,  death  in  its  most 
loathsome  aspect  lay  between  them;  and  the  man's  heart 
was  as  water,  his  feet  like  lead. 

"  If  you  come  near  me,"  she  whispered,  "  if  you  come 
a  step  nearer,  I  will  snatch  this  sheet  from  them,  and  I 
will  wrap  you  in  it!  And  you  will  die!  In  eight  days  you 
will  be  dead!  Will  you  see  them?  Will  you  see  what  you 
will  be  ?  '"'    And  she  lowered  her  hand  to  raise  the  sheet. 

He  stepped  back  a  pace,  livid  and  shaking.  "  You  she- 
devil!  "  he  muttered.    "  You  witch!  " 

"  Go!  "  she  answered,  in  the  same  low  tone.  "  Go!  Or  I 
will  bring  your  death  to  you!  And  you  will  die!  As  you 
have  lived,  foul,  noisome,  corrupt,  you  will  die!  In  eight 
days  you  will  die — if  you  come  one  step  nearer!  " 

She  took  a  step  forward  herself.  The  man  turned  and 
fled. 

16 


CHAPTEE  XIX 


lady  bettt's  fate 


Lady  Betty  had  left  the  house  on  the  hill  a  mile  behind, 
her  breath  came  in  heavy  gasps,  her  heart  seemed  to  be 
bursting  through  her  bodice;  still  she  panted  bravely  along 
the  road  that  stretched  before  her,  white  under  the  moon- 
beams. Sophia  had  bidden  her  run,  the  moment  the  man's 
back  was  turned.  "  Give  the  alarm,  get  help,"  she  had 
whispered  as  she  thrust  the  diamonds  into  the  child's  hand; 
and  acting  on  that  instinct  of  obedience,  prompt  and  un- 
questioning, which  the  imminence  of  peril  teaches,  Betty 
had  fled  on  the  word.  She  had  slipped  behind  the  man's 
back,  passed  between  the  houses,  and  escaped  into  the  open, 
unseen,  as  she  fancied. 

For  a  time  she  had  sped  along  the  road,  looking  this  way 
and  that,  expecting  at  each  turn  to  discover  a  house,  a 
light,  the  help  she  sought.  At  length,  coming  on  none  of 
these,  she  began  to  suspect  the  truth,  and  that  Sophia  had 
saved  her  at  her  own  cost;  and  she  paused  and  turned,  and 
even  in  her  distraction  made  as  if  she  would  go  back.  But 
in  the  end,  with  a  sob  of  grief,  she  hurried  on,  seeing  in  this 
their  only  chance. 

At  length  her  strength  began  to  fail.  Presently  she  could 
go  no  farther,  and  with  a  cry  of  anguish  came  to  a  stand  in  a 
dark  part  of  the  road.  She  was  alone,  in  an  unknown  coun- 
try, with  the  night  before  her,  with  the  sounds  of  the  night 
round  her;  and  commonly  she  was  afraid  of  the  night.    But 

242 


LADY  BETTY'S   FATE  243 

now  all  the  child's  thought  was  for  Sophia;  her  heart  was 
breaking  for  her  friend.  And  by-and-by  she  pressed  on 
again,  her  breath  fluttering  between  sobs  and  exhaustion. 
She  turned  a  corner — and  oh,  sweet,  she  saw  a  light  before 
her! 

She  struggled  towards  it.  The  spark  grew  larger  and 
larger;  finally  it  became  the  open  doorway  of  an  alehouse, 
from  which  the  company  were  departing.  The  goodman  and 
two  or  three  topers  were  on  their  feet  having  a  last  crack, 
the  goodwife  from  her  bed  above  was  demanding  lustily 
why  they  lingered,  when  the  girl,  breathless  and  dishevelled, 
her  hair  hanging  about  her  face,  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
For  a  moment  she  could  not  speak;  her  face  was  white,  her 
eyes  stared  wildly.  The  men  fell  back  from  her,  as  a  flock 
of  sheep  crowd  away  from  the  dog. 

"  What  beest  'ee?  "  the  landlord  bleated  faintly.  "  Lord 
save  us  and  help  us!    Be  'ee  mortal?  " 

"  Help ! "  she  muttered,  as  she  leaned  almost  swooning, 
against  the  doorpost.  "Help!  Come  quickly!  They'll — 
they'll  murder  her — if  you  don't!  "  And  she  stretched  out 
her  hands  to  them. 

But  the  men  only  shuddered.  "Lord  save  us!"  one  of 
them  stammered.    "  It's  mostly  for  murder  they  come/' 

She  saw  that  no  one  moved,  and  she  could  have  screamed 
with  impatience.  "  Don't  you  hear  me?  "  she  cried  hoarsely. 
"  Come,  or  they'll  kill  her!  They'll  kill  her!  I've  left  her 
with  them.    Come,  if  you  are  men!  " 

They  began  to  see  that  the  girl  was  flesh  and  blood;  but 
their  minds  were  rustic,  and  none  of  the  quickest,  and  they 
might  have  continued  to  gape  at  her  for  some  time  longer, 
if  the  goodwife,  who  had  heard  every  word,  had  not  looked 
through  the  trap  in  the  ceiling.  She  saw  the  girl.  "  Lord 
sake!  "  she  cried,  struck  with  amazement.    "  What  is  it?  " 

"  Help!  "  Betty  answered,  clasping  her  hands,  and  turn- 
ing her  eyes  in  that  direction.    "  For  pity's  sake  send  them 


244  SOPHIA 

with  me!    There's  murder  being  done  on  the  road!    Tell 
them  to  come  with  me." 

"  What  is  it?    Footpads?  "  the  woman  asked  sharply. 

"Yes,    oh    yes!      They    have    stopped    Lady    Coke's 


carriage 


The  woman  waited  to  hear  no  more.  "  Quick,  you  fools!  " 
she  cried.  "  Get  sticks,  and  go !  Lady  Coke's  carriage,  eh? 
You'll  be  her  woman,  I  expect.  They'll  come,  they'll  come. 
But  where  is't?    Speak  up,  and  don't  be  afraid!  " 

"At  a  house  on  a  hill,"  Lady  Betty  answered  rapidly. 
"  She's  there,  hiding  from  them.  And  oh,  be  quick!  be 
quick,  if  you  please!  " 

But  at  that  word  the  goodman,  who  had  snatched  up 
a  thatching  stake,  paused  on  the  threshold.  "  A  house  on 
a  hill?  "  he  said.    "  Do  you  mean  Beamond's  farm?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  It's  on  a  hill  about  a 
mile  or  more — oh,  more  from  here — on  the  way  I  came! 
You  must  know  it! " 

"  This  side  of  a  ford?  " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  They've  the  smallpox  there?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  so!" 

The  man  flung  down  the  stake.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  It's 
no!  I  don't  go  there.  Devil  take  me  if  I  do.  And  she 
don't  come  here.  If  you  are  of  my  mind,"  he  continued, 
looking  darkly  at  his  fellows,  "  you'll  leave  this  alone! " 

The  men  were  evidently  of  that  mind;  they  threw  down 
their  weapons,  some  with  a  curse,  some  with  a  shiver.  Betty 
saw,  and  frantic,  could  not  believe  her  eyes.  "  Cowards!  " 
she  cried.    "  You  cowards!  " 

The  woman  alone  looked  at  her  uncertainly.  "  I've  chil- 
dren, you  see,"  she  said.  "  I've  to  think  of  them.  But 
there's  Crabbe  could  go.    He's  neither  chick  nor  child." 

But  the  lout  she  named  backed  into  a  corner,  sullen  and 
resolute;  as  if  he  feared  they  would  force  him  to  go.  "  Not 


LADY  BETTY'S  FATE  245 

I"  he  said.  "  I  don't  go  near  it,  neither.  There's  three 
there  dead  and  stiff,  and  three's  enough." 

"  You  cowards! "  Betty  repeated,  sobbing  with  passion. 

The  woman,  too,  looked  at  them  with  no  great  favour. 
"  Will  none  of  you  go  ?  "  she  said.  "  Mind  you,  if  you  go 
I'll  be  bound  you'll  be  paid!  Or  perhaps  the  young  sir  there 
will  go!" 

She  turned  as  she  spoke,  and  Betty,  looking  in  the  same 
direction,  saw  a  young  man  seated  on  the  side  of  a  box  bed 
in  the  darkest  part  of  the  kitchen.  Apparently  her  entrance 
had  roused  him  from  sleep,  for  his  hair  was  rough,'  and  he 
was  in  his  shirt  and  breeches.  His  boots,  clay-stained  to  the 
knees,  stood  beside  the  bed;  his  coat  and  cravat,  which  were 
drying  in  the  chimney  corner,  showed  that  he  had  been 
out  in  bad  weather.  The  clothes  he  retained  bore  traces 
of  wear  and  usage;  but,  though  plain,  they  seemed  to  denote 
a  higher  station  than  that  of  the  rustics  in  his  company. 
As  his  eyes  met  Lady  Betty's,  "  I'll  come,"  he  said  gruffly. 
And  he  reached  for  his  boots  and  began  to  put  them  on; 
but  with  a  yawn. 

Still  she  was  thankful.  "  Oh,  will  you! "  she  cried. 
"  You're  a  man.    And  the  only  one  here!  " 

"  He  won't  be  one  long! "  the  nearest  boor  cried  spite- 
fully. 

But  the  lad,  dropping  for  a  moment  his  listless  manner, 
took  a  step  in  the  speaker's  direction;  and  the  clown  re- 
coiled. The  young  fellow  laughed,  and,  snatching  up  a  stout 
stick  that  rested  against  his  truckle  bed,  said  he  was  ready. 
"  You  know  the  way?  "  he  said;  and  then,  as  he  read  ex- 
haustion written  on  her  face,  "  Quick,  mother,"  he  cried  in 
an  altered  tone,  "  have  you  naught  you  can  give  her?  She 
will  drop  before  she  has  gone  a  mile!  " 

The  woman  hurried  up  the  ladder  and  fetched  a  little 
spirit  in  a  mug.  She  handed  it  to  the  girl  at  arm's  length, 
telling  her  to  drink  it,  it  would  do  her  good.    Then,  cutting 


246  SOPHIA 

a  slice  from  a  loaf  of  coarse  bread  that  lay  on  the  table,  she 
pushed  it  over  to  her.  "  Take  that  in  your  hand/'  she  said, 
"  and  God  keep  you." 

Betty  did  as  she  was  bidden,  though  she  was  nearly  sick 
with  suspense.  Then  she  thanked  the  woman,  turned,  and., 
deaf  to  the  boors'  gibes,  passed  into  the  road  with  her  new 
protector.  She  showed  him  the  way  she  had  come,  and  the 
two  set  off  walking  at  the  top  of  her  pace. 

She  swallowed  a  morsel  of  bread,  then  ran  a  little,  the 
tears  rising  in  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  Sophia.  A  mo- 
ment of  this  feverish  haste,  and  the  lad  bade  her  walk.  "  If 
we've  a  mile  to  go,"  he  said  wisely,  "  you  cannot  run  all  the 
way.  Slow  and  steady  kills  the  hare,  my  dear.  How  many 
are  there  of  these  gentry?" 

"  Three,"  she  answered;  and  as  she  pictured  Sophia  and 
those  three  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat. 

"  Any  servants?  I  mean  had  your  mistress  any  men  with 
her?  "  * 

Betty  told  him,  but  incoherently.  The  postboys,  the 
grooms,  Watkyns,  Pettitt,  all  were  mixed  up  in  her  narra- 
tive. He  tried  to  follow  it,  then  gave  up  the  attempt. 
"  Anyway,  they  have  all  fled,"  he  said.    "  It  comes  to  that." 

She  admitted  with  a  sob  that  it  was  so;  that  Sophia  was 
alone. 

The  moonlight  lay  on  the  road;  as  she  tripped  by  his 
side,  he  turned  and  scanned  her.  He  took  her  for  my  lady's 
woman,  as  the  mistress  at  the  alehouse  had  taken  her.  He 
had  caught  the  name  of  Coke,  but  he  knew  no  Lady  Coke; 
he  had  not  heard  of  Sir  Hervey's  marriage,  and,  to  be  truth- 
ful, his  mind  was  more  concerned  for  the  maid  than  the  mis- 
tress. Through  the  disorder  of  Betty's  hair  and  dress,  her 
youth  and  something  of  her  beauty  peeped  out;  it  struck 
him  how  brave  she  had  been  to  come  for  help,  through  the 
night,  alone;  how  much  more  brave  she  was  to  be  willing  to 
return,  seeing  that  he  was  but  one  to  three,  and  there  was 


LADY  BETTY'S  FATE  247 

smallpox  to  face.  As  he  considered  this  he  felt  a  warmth 
at  his  heart  which  he  had  not  felt  for  clays.    And  he  sighed. 

Presently  her  steps  began  to  lag;  she  stood.  "  Where  are 
we?  "  she  cried,  fear  in  her  voice.    "  We  should  be  there!  " 

"  We've  come  about  a  mile,"  he  said,  peering  forward 
through  the  moonlight.    "  Is  it  on  a  hill,  did  you  say?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  see  no  hill." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  but  perhaps  the  fall  this  way  is 
gentle." 

She  muttered  a  word  of  relief.  "  That  is  so,"  she  said. 
"  It's  above  the  water,  on  the  farther  side,  that  it  is  steep. 
Come  on,  please  come  on!    I  think  I  see  a  house."' 

But  the  house  she  saw  proved  to  be  only  a  deserted  barn, 
at  the  junction  of  two  roads;  and  they  stood  dismayed. 
"  Did  you  pass  this?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  cried.    "  Yes,  I  think  so." 

"  On  your  right  or  your  left?  " 

She  wrung  her  hands.  "  I  think  it  was  on  my  right,"  she 
said. 

He  took  the  right-hand  turn  without  more  ado,  and  they 
hurried  along  the  road  for  some  minutes.  At  length  her 
steps  began  to  flag.  "  I  must  be  wrong,"  she  faltered.  "  I 
must  be  wrong!  Oh,  why,"  she  cried,  "  why  did  I  leave 
her?"    And  she  stood. 

"  Courage!  "  he  answered.  "  I  see  a  rising  ground  on  the 
left.  And  there's  a  house  on  it.  We  ought  to  have  taken 
the  other  turning.  Now  we  are  here  we  had  better  cross  the 
open.  Shall  I  lift  you  over  the  ditch,  child?  Or  shall  I 
leave  you  and  go  on  ?  " 

But  she  scrambled  into  the  ditch  and  out  again;  on  the 
other  side  the  two  set  off  running  with  one  accord,  across 
an  open  field,  dim  and  shadowy,  that  stretched  away  to  the 
foot  of  the  ascent.  Soon  he  outpaced  her,  and  she  fell  to 
walking.  "  Go  on!  "  she  panted  bravely.  "  On,  on,  I  will 
follow! " 


248  SOPHIA 

He  nodded,  and  clutching  his  stick  by  the  middle,  he 
lengthened  his  stride.  She  saw  him  come  to  a  blurred  line 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  heard  him  break  through  the 
fence.  Then  the  darkness  that  lay  on  the  hither  slope  of 
the  hill — for  the  moon  was  beginning  to  decline — swal- 
lowed him,  and  she  walked  on  more  slowly.  Each  moment 
she  expected  to  hear  a  cry,  an  oath,  the  sudden  clash  of 
arms  would  break  the  silence  of  the  night. 

But  the  silence  held;  and  still  silence.  And  now  the 
fence  brought  her  up  also;  and  she  stood  waiting,  trembling, 
listening,  in  a  prolongation  of  suspense  almost  intolerable. 
At  length,  unable  to  bear  it  longer,  she  pushed  her  way  into 
the  hedge,  and  struggled,  panting  through  it;  and  was 
starting  to  clamber  up  the  ascent  on  the  other  side  when  a 
dark  form  loomed  beside  her. 

It  was  her  companion.    What  had  happened? 

"  We  are  wrong,"  he  muttered.  "  It's  a  clump  of  trees, 
not  a  house.  And  there  are  clouds  coming  up  to  cover 
the  moon.  Let  us  return  to  the  road  while  we  can,  my 
girl." 

But  this  was  too  much.  At  this,  the  last  of  many  dis- 
appointments, the  girl's  courage  snapped,  as  a  rush  snaps. 
With  a  wild  outburst  of  weeping,  she  flung  herself  down  on 
the  sloping  ground,  and  rubbed  her  face  in  the  grass,  and 
tore  the  soil  with  her  fingers  in  an  agony  of  abandonment. 
"  Oh,  I  left  her!  I  left  her!  "  she  wailed,  when  sobs  allowed 
words  to  pass.  "  I  left  her,  and  saved  myself.  And  she's 
dead!  Oh,  why  didn't  I  stay  with  her?  Why  didn't  I  stay 
with  her?  " 

The  young  man  listened  awhile,  awkward,  perturbed; 
when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  husky.  "  'Tis  no  use,"  he  said 
peevishly.  "No  use,  child!  Don't — don't  go  on  like  this! 
See  here,  you'll  have  a  fever,  if  you  lie  there.  You  will,  I 
know,"  he  repeated. 

"I  wish  I  had!"  she  cried  with  passion,  and  beat  her 
hands  on  the  ground.    "  Oh  why  did  I  leave  her?  " 


LADY  BETTY'S  FATE  249 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "  It's  folly  this!  "  he  urged.  "  It's 
— it's  of  no  use  to  any  one.  No  good!  And  there,  now  it's 
dark.  I  told  you  so — and  we  shall  have  fine  work  getting  to 
the  road  again! " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  little  by  little  his  meaning 
reached  her  brain,  and  after  a  minute  or  two  she  sat  up, 
her  crying  less  violent.  "  That's  better,"  he  said.  "  But  you 
are  too  tired  to  go  farther.  Let  me  help  you  to  climb  the 
fence.  There's  a  log  the  other  side — I  stumbled  over  it. 
You  can  sit  on  it  until  you  are  rested." 

She  did  not  assent,  but  she  suffered  him  to  help  her 
through  the  hedge  and  seat  her  on  the  fallen  tree.  The 
tide  of  grief  had  ebbed;  she  was  regaining  her  self-control, 
though  now  and  again  a  sob  shook  her.  But  he  saw  that  an 
interval  must  pass  before  she  could  travel,  and  he  stood,  shy 
and  silent,  seeing  her  dimly  by  the  light  which  the  moon 
still  shed  through  a  flying  wrack  of  clouds.  Bound  and 
below  them  lay  the  country,  still,  shadowy,  mysterious; 
stretching  away  into  unknown  infinities,  framing  them  in  a 
solitude  perfect  and  complete.  They  might  have  been  the 
only  persons  in  the  world. 

By-and-by,  whether  he  was  tired,  or  really  had  a  desire 
to  comfort  her  at  closer  quarters,  he  sat  down  on  the  tree; 
and  by  chance  his  hand  touched  her  hand.  She  sprang  a 
foot  away,  and  uttered  a  cry.    He  laughed  softly. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  said.  "  I've  seen  enough 
of  women  to  last  me  my  life.  If  you  were  the  only  woman 
in  the  world,  and  the  most  beautiful,  you  would  be  safe 
enough  for  me.    You  may  be  quite  easy,  my  dear." 

She  ceased  to  sob,  but  her  voice  was  a  little  broken  and 
husky  when  she  spoke.  "  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said  humbly. 
"  I  am  afraid  I  have  given  you  a  vast  deal  of  trouble,  sir." 

"  Not  so  much  as  a  woman  has  given  me  before  this," 
he  answered. 

She  looked  at  him  furtively  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye, 


250  SOPHIA 

as  a  woman  at  that  would  be  likely  to  look.  And  if  the 
truth  be  told  she  felt,  amid  all  her  grief,  an  inclination 
to  laugh.  But  with  feminine  tact  she  suppressed  this. 
"  And  yet — and  yet  you  came  to  help  me  ?  "  she  muttered. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  One  has  to  do  certain 
things,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  afraid  somebody  has — has  behaved  badly  to  you," 
she  murmured;  and  she  sighed. 

Somehow  the  sigh  flattered  him.  "  As  women  generally 
behave,"  he  replied  with  a  sneer.  "  She  lied  to  me,  she 
cheated  me,  she  robbed  me,  and  she  would  have  ruined  me." 

"  And  men  don't  do  those  things,"  she  answered  meekly, 
"  to  women."    And  she  sighed  again. 

He  started.  It  could  not  be  that  she  was  laughing  at 
him.  "  Anyway,  I  have  done  with  women,"  he  said 
brusquely. 

"  And  you'll  never  marry,  sir?  " 

"  Marry?  Oh,  I  say  nothing  as  to  that,"  he  answered 
contemptuously.  "  Marry  I  may,  but  it  won't  be  for  love. 
And  'twill  be  a  lady  anyway;  I'll  see  to  that.  I'll  know  her 
father  and  her  mother,  and  her  grandfather  and  her  grand- 
mother," Tom  continued.  For  poor  Tom  it  was,  much 
battered  and  weathered  by  a  week  spent  on  the  verge  of 
'listing.  "  I'll  have  her  pedigree  by  heart,  and  she  shall 
bring  her  old  nurse  with  her  to  speak  for  her,  if  marry  I 
must.  But  no  more  ladies  in  distress  for  me.  No  more 
ladies  picked  up  off  the  road,  I  thank  you.    That's  all." 

"  You  are  frank,  sir,  at  any  rate,"  she  said;  and  she 
laughed  in  a  sort  of  wonder,  taking  it  to  herself. 

At  the  sound,  Tom,  who  had  meant  nothing  personal, 
felt  ashamed  of  himself.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  he 
answered.  "  But — but  I  wished  to  put  you  at  your  ease.  I 
wished  to  show  you,  you  were  safe  with  me;  as  your  mistress 
would  be." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  Betty  answered.    "  For  the  matter  of 


LADY  BETTY'S  FATE  2.51 

that,  sir,  I've  had  a  lover  myself,  and  said  no  to  him,  as 
well  as  my  betters.  But  it  wasn't  before  he  asked  me,"  she 
continued  ironically.    And  she  tossed  her  head  again. 

"  I  didn't  mean — I  mean  I  thought  you  were  afraid  of 
me,"  Tom  stammered,  wondering  she  took  it  so  ill. 

"  No  more  than  my  mistress  would  be,"  she  retorted 
sharply.  "  And  I'm  just  as  particular  as  she  is — in  one 
thing." 

"What's  that?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  take  gentlemen  off  the  road,  either." 

He  laughed,  seeing  himself  hit;  and  as  if  that  recalled 
her  :o  herself,  she  sprang  up  with  a  sob  of  remorse.  "  Oh," 
she  said,  wringing  her  hands,  "  we  sit  here  and  play,  while 
she  suffers!  We  don't  think  of  her!  Do  something!  do 
something  if  you  are  a  man!  " 

"  But  we  don't  know  where  we  are,  or  where  she  is." 

"  Then  let  us  find  her,"  she  cried;  "  let  us  find  her!  " 

"  We  can  do  nothing  in  the  dark,"  he  urged.  "  It  is  dark 
as  the  pit  now.  If  we  can  find  our  way  to  the  road  again, 
it  will  be  as  much  as  we  can  do." 

"  Let  us  try!  let  us  try!  "  she  answered,  growing  frantic. 
"  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  stay  here." 

He  gave  way  at  that,  and  consented  to  try.  But  they 
had  not  gone  fifty  yards  before  she  tripped  and  fell,  and 
he  heard  her  gasp  for  breath. 

"  Are  you  hurt?  "  he  asked,  stooping  anxiously  over  her. 

"  No,"  she  said.  But  she  rose  with  difficulty,  and  he 
knew  by  her  voice  that  she  was  shaken. 

"  It's  of  no  use  to  go  on,"  he  said.  '"  I  told  you  so.  We 
must  stay  here.  It  is  after  midnight  now.  In  an  hour,  or 
a  little  more,  dawn  will  appear.  If  we  find  the  road  now  we 
can  do  no  good." 

She  shivered.  "  Take  me  back,"  she  said  miserably.  "  I 
— I  don't  know  where  we  are." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  with  a  little  judgment  found  the 


252  SOPHIA 

tree  again.  "  If  you  could  sleep  awhile,"  he  said,  "  the  time 
would  pass." 

"  I  cannot,"  she  cried,  "  I  cannot."  And  then,  "  Oh 
Sophy!  Sophy!  "  she  wailed,  "  why  did  I  leave  you?  Why 
did  I  leave  you?  " 

He  let  her  weep  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  as  much  to 
distract  her  as  for  any  other  reason,  he  asked  her  if  she 
had  been  brought  up  with  her  mistress. 

She  ceased  to  sob.    "  Why?  "  she  asked,  startled. 

"  Because — you  called  her  by  her  name,"  he  said.  "  I 
noticed  because  I've  a  sister  of  that  name." 

"  Sophia?  " 

"  Yes.  If  I  had  listened  to  her — but  there,  what  is  the 
use  of  talking?  "    And  he  broke  off  brusquely. 

Lady  Betty  was  silent  awhile,  only  betraying  her  im- 
patience by  sighing  or  beating  the  trunk  with  her  heels. 
By-and-by,  the  hour  before  the  dawn  came,  and  it  grew 
cold.  He  heard  her  teeth  chatter,  and  after  fumbling  with 
his  coat,  he  took  it  off,  and,  in  spite  of  her  remonstrances, 
wrapped  her  in  it. 

"  Don't!  "  she  said,  feebly  struggling  with  him.  "  Don't! 
You're  a  gentleman,  and  I  am  only " 

"  You're  a  woman  as  much  as  your  mistress,"  he  an- 
swered roughly. 

"  But — you  hate  women!  "  she  cried. 

"  You  don't  belong  to  me,"  he  answered  with  disdain, 
"  and  you'll  not  die  on  my  hands!  Do  as  you  are  bidden, 
child! " 

After  that  he  walked  up  and  down  before  the  tree;  until 
at  last  the  day  broke,  and  the  grey  light,  spreading  and 
growing  stronger,  showed  them  a  sea  of  mist,  covering  the 
whole  world — save  the  little  eminence  on  which  they  sat — 
and  flowing  to  their  very  feet.  It  showed  them  also  two 
haggard  faces — his  weary,  hers  beautiful  in  spite  of  its 
pallor  and  her  long  vigil.    For  in  some  mysterious  way  she 


LADY  BETTY'S  FATE  253 

had  knotted  up  her  hair  and  tied  her  kerchief.  As  she  gave 
him  back  his  coat,  and  their  eyes  met,  he  started  and  grew 
red. 

"  Good  heavens,  child! "  he  cried,  "  you  are  too  hand- 
some to  be  wandering  the  country  alone;  and  too  young." 

She  had  nothing  to  say  to  that,  but  her  cheeks  flamed, 
and  she  begged  him  to  come  quickly — quickly;  and  to- 
gether they  went  down  into  the  mist.  At  that  hour  the 
birds  sing  in  chorus  as  they  never  sing  in  the  day;  and, 
by  the  time  the  two  reached  the  road  the  sun  was  up  and 
the  world  round  them  was  joyous  with  warmth  and  light 
and  beauty.  The  dew  besprinkled  every  bush  with  jewels 
as  bright  as  those  which  Betty  carried  in  her  bosom — for 
she  had  thrown  away  the  case — and  from  the  pines  on 
the  hill  came  the  perfume  of  a  hundred  Arabys.  Tom 
wondered  why  his  heart  beat  so  lightly,  why  he  felt  an 
exhilaration  to  which  he  had  been  long  a  stranger.  Heart- 
broken, a  woman-hater,  a  cynic,  it  could  not  be  because  a 
pair  of  beautiful  eyes  had  looked  kindly  into  his?  because 
a  waiting-maid  had  for  a  moment  smiled  on  him?  That 
was  absurd. 

For  her,  left  to  herself,  she  would  have  pursued  the  old 
plan,  and  gone  wildly,  frantically  up  and  down,  seeking 
at  random  the  place  where  she  had  left  Sophia.  But  he 
would  not  suffer  it.  He  led  her  to  the  nearest  cottage,  and 
learning  from  the  staring  inhabitants  the  exact  position  of 
Beamond's  Farm,  got  his  companion  milk  and  bread,  and 
saw  her  eat  it.    Then  he  announced  his  purpose. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  here,"  he  said.  "  In  two  hours  at  the 
most  I  shall  be  back  with  news." 

"  And  you  think  I'll  stay?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  think  you  will,  for  I  shall  not  take  you,"  he  answered 
coolly.  "Do  you  want  the  smallpox,  silly  child?  Do 
you  think  your  ladies  will  be  as  ready  to  hire  you  when 
you  have  lost  your  looks?  Stay  here,  and  in  two  hours 
I  shall  be  back." 


254  SOPHIA 

She  cried  that  she  would  not  stay;  she  would  not  stay! 
"  I  shall  not!  "  she  cried  a  third  time.  "  Do  you  hear  me? 
I  shall  go  with  you!  " 

"You  will  not!"  Tom  said.  "And  for  a  good  reason, 
my  girl.  You  heard  that  woman  ask  us  whether  we  came 
from  Bearnond's,  and  you  saw  the  way  she  looked  at  us. 
If  it's  known  we've  been  there,  there's  not  a  house  within 
ten  miles  will  take  us  in,  nor  a  coach  will  give  us  a  lift. 
You  have  had  one  night  out,  you'll  not  bear  another.  Now, 
with  me  it  is  different." 

"  It  is  not,"  she  cried.    "  I  shall  go." 

"  You  will  not,"  he  said;  and  their  eyes  met.  And  pres- 
ently hers  dropped.  "  You  will  not,"  he  repeated  master- 
fully; "  because  I  am  the  stronger,  and  I  will  tie  you  to  a 
gate  before  you  shall  go.  And  you,  little  fool,  will  be 
thankful  to  me  to-morrow.    It's  for  your  own  good." 

She  gave  way  at  that,  crying  feebly,  for  the  night  had 
shaken  her.  "  Sit  here  in  sight  of  the  cottage,"  he  con- 
tinued, thrusting  aside  the  brambles  and  making  a  place  for 
her  beside  a  tree,  "  and  if  you  can  sleep  a  little,  so  much 
the  better.    In  two  hours  at  the  farthest  I  will  be  back." 

She  obeyed,  watched  him  go,  and  saw  his  figure  grow 
smaller  and  smaller,  until  it  vanished  at  a  turn  of  the  road. 
She  watched  the  woman  of  the  cottage  pass  in  and  out  with 
pail  and  pattens,  and  by-and-by  she  had  to  parry  her  ques- 
tions. She  saw  the  sun  climb  higher  and  higher  in  the  sky, 
and  heard  the  hum  of  the  bees  grow  loud  and  louder,  and 
frit  the  heat  of  the  day  take  hold;  and  yet  he  did  not  return. 
And  while  she  watched  for  him  most  keenly,  as  she  imag- 
ined, she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  he  was  standing  over  her,  and  his  face 
told  her  all.  She  sprang  up.  "  You've  not  found  her!  " 
she  cried,  clasping  her  hands,  and  holding  them  out  to  him. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  There's  no  one  in  the  house.  No  one 
but  the  dead." 


CHAPTER  XX 

A   FRIEND   IN    NEED 

Sophia's  knees  shook  under  her,  her  flesh  shuddered  in 
revolt,  but  she  held  her  ground  until  Hawkesworth's  foot- 
steps and  the  murmur  of  his  companions'  jeering  voices 
sank  and  died  in  the  distance.  Then,  with  eyes  averted 
from  the  bed,  she  crept  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  de- 
scended, her  skirts  gathered  jealously  about  her.  She 
reached  the  kitchen.  Here,  in  the  twilight  that  veiled  the 
shrouded  cradle,  and  mercifully  hid  worse  things,  she  lis- 
tened awhile;  peering  with  scared  eyes  into  the  corners,  and 
prepared  to  flee  at  the  least  alarm.  Satisfied  at  last  that 
those  she  feared  had  really  withdrawn,  she  passed  out  into 
the  open,  and  under  the  night  sky,  with  the  fresh  breeze 
cooling  her  fevered  face,  she  drank  in  with  ecstasy  a  first 
deep  breath  of  relief.  Oh,  the  pureness  of  that  draught! 
Oh,  the  freedom  and  the  immensity  of  the  vault  above  her 
— after  that  charnel-house! 

She  felt  sure  that  the  men  had  retired  the  way  they 
had  come,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  she  turned  in 
the  other  direction,  and  venturing  into  the  moonlight,  took 
the  road  that  Betty  had  taken.  Now  she  paused  to  listen, 
now  on  some  alarm  effaced  herself  in  the  shadow  cast  by  a 
tree.  By-and-by,  when  she  had  left  the  plague-strickerj 
house  two  or  three  hundred  paces  behind  her,  her  ear 
caught  the  pleasant  ripple  of  water.  Her  throat  was 
parched,  and  she  stopped,  and  traced  the  sound  to  a  spring 
that,  bubbling  from  a  rock,  filled  a  mossy  caldron  sunk  in 

255 


256  SOPHIA 

the  earth,  then  ran  to  waste  in  a  tiny  rill  beside  the  road. 
The  hint  was  enough;  in  a  second  she  had  dragged  off  her 
outer  garment,  a  green  riding-coat,  and  shuddering,  flung 
it  from  her;  in  another  she  had  thrown  off  her  shoes  and 
loosened  her  hair.  A  moment  she  listened;  then,  having  as- 
sured herself  that  she  was  not  pursued,  she  plunged  head 
and  hair  and  hands  in  the  fountain,  let  the  cool  water  run 
over  her  fevered  arms  and  neck,  revelled  in  the  purifying 
touch  that  promised  to  remove  from  her  the  loathsome  in- 
fection of  the  house.  She  was  a  woman,  she  had  not  only 
death,  but  disfigurement  to  fear.  One  of  the  happy  few 
who,  under  the  early  Georges,  when  even  inoculation  was 
in  its  infancy,  had  escaped  the  disease,  she  clung  to  her  im- 
munity with  a  nervous  dread. 

When  she  had  done  all  she  could,  she  rose  to  her  feet 
and  knotted  up  her  hair.  She  had  Betty  on  her  mind; 
she  must  follow  the  girl.  But  midnight  was  some  time 
past,  the  moon  was  declining,  and  her  strength,  sapped  by 
the  intense  excitement  under  which  she  had  laboured,  was 
nearly  spent.  The  chances  that  she  would  alight  on  Betty 
were  slight,  while  it  was  certain  that  the  girl  would  event- 
ually return,  or  would  send  to  the  place  where  they  had 
parted  company.  Sophia  determined  to  remain  where  she 
was;  and  with  the  music  of  the  rill  for  company,  and  a  large 
stone  that  stood  beside  it  for  a  seat,  hard  but  dry,  the  worst 
discomfort  which  she  had  to  fear  was  cold;  and  this,  in  her 
fervent  gratitude  for  rescue  from  greater  perils,  she  bore 
without  complaint. 

The  solemnity  of  the  night,  as  it  wore  slowly  to  morn- 
ing, the  depth  of  silence — as  of  death — that  preceded  the 
dawn,  the  stir  of  thanksgiving  that  greeted  the  birth  of  an- 
other day,  these  working  on  a  nature  stirred  by  strange 
experiences  and  now  subject  to  a  strange  solitude,  awoke 
in  her  thoughts  deeper  than  ordinary.  She  saw  in  Betty's 
recklessness  the  mirror  of  her   own;   she   shuddered   at 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  257 

Hawkesworth,  disclosed  to  her  in  his  true  colours;  and  con- 
sidered Sir  Hervey's  patience  with  new  wonder.  Near 
neighbour  to  death,  she  viewed  life  as  a  thing  detached  and 
whole;  with  its  end  as  well  as  its  beginning.  And  she 
formed  resolutions,  humble  at  the  least. 

By-and-by  she  had  to  rise  and  be  walking  to  keep  herself 
warm;  for  she  would  not  resume  her  riding-coat,  and  her 
arms  were  bare.  A  little  later,  however,  the  sun  rose  high 
enough  to  reach  her.  In  the  great  oak  that  overhung  the 
spring,  the  birds  began  to  flit  like  moving  shadows;  a  squir- 
rel ran  down  the  bark  and  looked  at  her.  And  in  her  veins  a 
strange  exhilaration  began  to  stir.  She  was  alive!  She  was 
safe!  And  then,  on  a  sudden,  she  heard  a  footstep  close  at 
hand. 

She  cowered  low,  seized  with  terror.  It  might  be 
Hawkesworth!  The  villain  might  have  repented  of  his 
fears,  have  gathered  courage  with  the  light,  have  returned 
more  ruthless  than  he  had  gone.  Fortunately,  the  panic 
which  the  thought  bred  in  her  was  short-lived.  An  asth- 
matic cough,  followed  by  the  noise  of  heavy  breathing,  put 
an  end  to  her  suspense.  Next  moment  an  elderly  man  wear- 
ing a  rusty  gown  and  a  shabby  hat  decked  with  a  rosette, 
came  in  sight.  He  leant  on  a  stout  stick,  and  carried  a  cloak 
on  his  arm.  He  had  white  hair  and  a  benevolent  aspect, 
with  features  that  seemed  formed  by  nature  for  mirth,  and 
compelled  by  circumstance  to  soberer  uses. 

Aware  of  the  oddity  of  her  appearance — bare-armed  and 
in  her  stocking  feet — Sophia  hung  back,  hesitating  to  ad- 
dress him;  he  was  quite  close  to  her  when  he  lifted  his  eyes 
and  saw  her.  The  good  man's  surprise  could  scarcely  have 
been  greater  had  he  come  upon  the  nymph  of  the  spring. 
He  started,  dropped  his  stick  and  cloak,  and  stared,  his  jaw 
fallen;  it  even  seemed  to  her  that  a  little  of  the  colour  left 
his  face. 

17 


258  SOPHIA 

At  last,  "  My  child/'  lie  cried,  "  what  are  you  doing  here, 
of  all  places?    D'you  come  from  the  house  above?  " 

"  I  have  been  there/'  she  answered. 

He  stared.  "But  they  have  the  smallpox!"  he  ex- 
claimed.   "  Did  you  know  it?  " 

"  I  went  there  to  avoid  worse  things/'  she  cried;  and 
fell  to  trembling.    "  Do  you  live  here,  sir?  " 

"  Here?  No;  but  I  live  in  the  valley  below,"  he  answered, 
still  contemplating  her  with  astonishment.  "  I  am  only 
here,"  he  continued,  with  a  touch  of  sternness  which  she 
did  not  understand,  "  because  my  duty  leads  me  here.  I  am 
told — God  grant  it  be  not  true — that  there  are  three  dead 
at  the  farm,  and  that  the  living  are  fled." 

"  It  is  true,"  she  answered  briefly.  And  against  the  verd- 
ure, framed  in  the  beauty  of  this  morning  world,  with  its 
freshness,  its  dancing  sunlight,  and  its  flitting  birds,  she 
saw  the  death-room,  the  foetid  mist  about  the  smoking  gut- 
tering candles,  the  sheeted  form.    She  shuddered. 

"  You  are  sure?  "  he  said. 

"  I  have  seen  them,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  I  need  go  no  farther  now,"  he  replied  in  a  tone 
of  relief.  "  I  can  do  no  good.  I  must  return  and  get  help 
to  bury  them.  It  will  be  no  easy  task;  my  parishioners  are 
stricken  with  panic,  they  think  only  of  their  wives  and 
families.  Even  in  my  own  household — but  I  am  forget- 
ting, child.  You  are  a  stranger  here?  And,  Lord  bless  me, 
what  has  become  of  your  gown?  " 

She  pointed  to  the  place  where  it  lay  a  little  apart,  in 
a  heap  on  the  ground.  "  I've  taken  it  off,"  she  explained, 
colouring  slightly.  "  I  fear  it  carries  the  infection.  I  was 
attacked  in  my  carriage  on  the  other  side  of  the  ford.  And 
robbed.  And  to  avoid  worse  things  I  took  refuge  in  the 
house  above." 

"  Lord  save  us!  "  he  cried,  lifting  his  hands  in  astonish- 
ment. "  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  Never!  We  have 
had  no  such  doings  in  these  parts  these  twenty  years!  " 


A   FRIEND   IN   NEED  259 

"  Perhaps  you  could  lend  me  your  cloak,  sir?  "  she  said. 
"  Until  I  can  get  something." 

He  handed  it  to  her.  "  To  be  sure,  to  he  sure/'  he  an- 
swered. And  then,  "In  your  carriage?"  he  continued. 
"Dear,  dear,  and  had  you  any  one  with  you,  ma'am?  " 

"  My  friend  escaped,"  she  explained,  "  with — with  some 
jewels  I  had.  The  postboys  had  been  sent  ahead  to  Lewes 
to  get  fresh  horses.  Watkyns,  one  of  the  servants,  had  re- 
turned towards  Fletching,  to  see  if  he  could  get  help  in  that 
quarter.  My  woman  was  so  frightened  that  she  was  use- 
less, and  the  two  grooms  had  been  made  drunk  on  the  road, 
and  were  useless  also!  " 

She  did  not  notice,  that  with  each  item  in  her  catalogue, 
the  old  clergyman's  eyes  grew  wider  and  wider;  nor  that 
towards  the  end  surprise  began  to  give  place  to  incredulity. 
This  talk  of  horses,  and  grooms,  and  servants,  and  maids, 
and  postboys  in  the  mouth  of  a  girl  found  hatless  and  shoe- 
less by  the  roadside — a  creature  with  tumbled  hair,  without 
a  gown,  and  in  petticoats  soaked  with  water,  and  stained 
with  dust  and  dirt,  over-stepped  the  bounds  of  reason.  Un- 
fortunately, a  little  before  this  a  young  woman  had  ap- 
peared in  a  town  not  far  off,  in  the  guise  of  a  countess;  and 
wTith  all  the  apparatus  of  the  rank  had  taken  in  no  less 
worshipful  a  body  than  the  mayor  and  corporation  of  the 
place,  who  in  the  issue  had  been  left  to  bewail  their  cre- 
dulity. The  tale  was  rife  along  the  country-side;  the  old 
clergyman  knew  it,  and  being  by  nature  a  simple  soul — as 
his  wife  often  told  him — had  the  cunning  of  simplicity.  He 
bade  himself  be  cautious — be  cautious;  and  as  he  listened 
bethought  him  of  a  test.  "  Your  carriage  should  be  there, 
then?  "  he  said.    "  Where  you  left  it,  ma'am?  " 

"  I  have  not  dared  to  return  and  see,"  she  answered. 
"  We  might  do  so  now,  if  you  will  be  kind  enough  to 
accompany  me." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.    Let  us  go,  child." 


260  SOPHIA 

But  when  they  had  crossed  the  ridge — keeping  as  far 
as  they  could  from  the  door  of  the  plague-stricken  house — 
he  was  no  whit  surprised  to  find  no  carriage,  no  servants, 
no  maid.  From  the  brow  of  the  hill  they  could  trace  with 
their  eyes  the  desolate  valley  and  the  road  by  which  she  had 
come;  but  nowhere  on  the  road,  or  beside  it,  was  any  sign  of 
life.  Sophia  had  been  so  much  shaken  by  the  events  of 
the  night  that  she  had  forgotten  the  possibility  of  rescue  at 
the  hands  of  her  own  people.  Now  that  the  notion  was 
suggested  to  her,  she  found  the  absence  of  the  carriage,  of 
Watkyns,  of  the  grooms,  inexplicable.  And  she  said  so;  but 
the  very  expression  of  her  astonishment,  following  abruptly 
on  his  suggestion  that  the.  carriage  should  be  there,  did 
but  deepen  the  good  parson's  doubts.  She  had  spun  her 
tale,  he  thought,  without  providing  for  this  point,  and  now 
sought  to  cover  the  blot  by  exclamations  of  surprise. 

He  had  not  the  heart,  however,  good  honest  soul  as  he 
was,  to  unmask  her;  on  the  contrary,  he  suffered  as  great 
embarrassment  as  if  the  deceit  had  been  his  own.  He 
found  himself  constrained  to  ask  in  what  way  he  could  help 
her;  and  when  she  suggested  that  she  should  rest  at  his 
house,  he  assented.    But  with  little  spirit. 

"  If  it  be  not  too  far?  "  she  said;  struck  by  his  tone,  and 
with  a  thought  also  for  her  unshod  feet. 

"  It's — it's  about  a  mile,"  he  answered. 

"  Well,  I  must  walk  it." 

"  You  don't  think— I  could  send,"  he  suggested  weakly, 
"and — and  make  inquiries — for  your  people,  ma'am?  " 

"  If  you  please,  when  I  am  there,"  she  said;  and  that 
left  him  no  resource  but  to  start  with  her.  But  as  they 
went,  amid  all  the  care  she  was  forced  to  give  to  her  steps, 
she  noticed  that  he  regarded  her  oddly;  that  he  looked 
askance  at  her  when  he  thought  her  eyes  elsewhere,  and 
looked  away  guiltily  when  she  caught  him  in  the  act. 

They  plodded  some  half-mile,  then  turned  to  the  right, 


A  FRIEND   IN  NEED  261 

and  a  trifle  farther  came  in  sight  of  a  little  hamlet  that 
nestled  among  chestnut  trees  in  a  dimple  of  the  hill-face. 
As  they  approached  this,  his  uneasiness  became  more 
marked;  nor  was  Sophia  left  in  ignorance  of  its  cause.  The 
first  house  to  which  they  came  was  a  neat  thatched  cottage 
beside  the  church.  A  low  wicket-gate  gave  access  to  the 
garden,  and  over  this  appeared  for  a  moment  an  angry 
woman's  face,  turned  in  the  direction  whence  they  came. 
It  was  gone  as  soon  as  seen;  but  Sophia,  from  a  faltered 
word  which  dropped  from  her  companion,  learned  to  whom 
it  belonged;  and  when  he  tried  the  wicket-gate  she  was  not 
surprised  to  see  it  was  fastened.  He  tried  it  nervously,  his 
face  grown  red;  then  he  raised  his  voice.  "  My  love,"  he 
cried,  "  I  have  come  back.  I  think  you  did  not  see  us.  "Will 
you  please  to  open  the  gate?  " 

An  ominous  silence  was  the  only  answer.  He  tried  the 
gate  a  second  time,  in  a  shamefaced  way.  "  My  dear,"  he 
cried  aloud,  a  quaver  in  his  patient  tone,  "  I  have  come 
back." 

"  And  more  shame  to  you,"  a  shrill  voice  answered,  the 
speaker  remaining  unseen.  "  Do  you  hear  me,  Michieson? 
More  shame  to  you,  you  unnatural  father!  Didn't  you  hear 
me  say  I  would  not  have  you  going  to  that  place?  And 
didn't  I  tell  you  if  you  went  you  would  not  come  here  again! 
You  thought  yourself  mighty  clever,  I'll  be  bound,"  the 
termagant  continued,  "to  go  off  while  I  was  asleep,  my 
man !  But  now  you'll  sleep  in  the  garden  house,  for  in  here 
you  don't  come!    Who's  that  with  you?  " 

"  A — a  young  lady  in  trouble,"  he  stammered. 

"  Where  did  you  find  her?  " 

"  On  the  road,  my  love!    In  great  trouble." 

"  Then  on  the  road  you  may  leave  her,"  the  shrew  re- 
torted. "  No,  my  man,  you  don't  come  over  me  that  way. 
You  brought  the  hussy  from  that  house.  Tell  me  she's  not 
been  in  it,  if  you  dare?    And  you'd  bring  her  in  among  your 


262  SOPHIA 

innocent,  lawful  children,  would  you,  and  give  'em  their 
deaths!  Fie,"  with  rising  indignation,  "  you  silly  old  fool! 
If  you  weren't  a  natural,  in  place  of  such  rubbish,  you'd 
have  been  over  to  Sir  Hervey's  and  complimented  madam 
this  fine  morning,  and  been  'pointed  chaplain.  But  'tis  like 
you.  Instead  of  providing  for  your  wife  and  children,  as  a 
man  should,  you're  trying  to  give  'em  their  deaths,  among 
a  lot  of  dead  people  that'll  never  find  you  in  a  bit  of  bread 
to  put  in  their  bellies,  or  a  bit  of  stuff  to  put  on  their  backs! 
I  tell  you,  Michieson,  I've  no  patience  with  you." 

"  But,  my  dear " 

"  Now  send  her  packing.    Do  you  hear  me,  Michieson?  " 

He  was  going  to  remonstrate,  but  Sophia  intervened. 
Spent  with  fatigue,  her  feet  sore  and  blistered,  she  felt  that 
she  could  not  go  a  yard  further.  Moreover,  to  eyes  dazed 
by  the  horrors  of  the  night,  the  thatched  house  among  the 
rose-briars,  with  its  hum  of  bees  and  scent  of  woodbine 
and  honey-suckle,  seemed  a  haven  of  peace.  She  raised  her 
voice.  "  Mrs.  Michieson,"  she  said,  "  your  husband  need 
not  go  to  Sir  Hervey's.    I  am  Lady  Coke." 

With  a  cry  of  amazement  a  thin,  red-faced  woman, 
scantily  dressed  in  an  old  soiled  wrapper  that  had  known 
a  richer  wearer — for  Mrs.  Michieson  had  been  a  lady's  maid 
— pushed  through  the  bushes.  She  stared  a  moment  with 
all  her  eyes;  then  she  burst  into  a  rude  laugh.  "  You  mean 
her  woman,  I  should  think,"  she  said.  "  Why,  you  saucy 
piece,  you  must  think  us  fine  simpletons  to  try  for  to  come 
over  us  with  that  story.  Lady  Coke  in  her  stockinged  feet, 
indeed!  " 

"  I  have  been  robbed,"  Sophia  faltered,  trying  not  to 
break  down.  "  You  are  a  woman.  Surely  you  have  some 
pity  for  another  woman  in  trouble?  " 

"  Aye,  you  are  like  enough  to  have  been  in  trouble !  That 
I  can  see!  "  the  parson's  lady  answered  with  a  sneer.  "  But 
I'll  trouble  you  not  to  call  me  a  woman! "  she  continued, 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  203 

tossing  her  head.  "  Woman,  indeed!  A  pretty  piece  you 
are  to  call  names,  trapesing  the  country  like  a  guy,  and — 
why,  whose  cloak  have  you  there  ?  .1/  ich  ieson !  "  in  a  voice 
like  vinegar.    "  What  does  this  mean?  " 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  humbly — Sophia,  on  the  verge  of 
tears,  could  say  no  more  lest  she  should  break  down,  "  the  • 
— the  lady  was  robbed  on  the  road.    She  was  travelling  in 
her  carriage " 

"  In  her  carriage  ?  " 

"  And  her  servants  ran  away — as  I  understand,"  he  ex- 
plained, rubbing  his  hands,  and  smiling  in  a  sickly  way, 
"and  the  postboys  did  not  return,  and — and  her 
woman " 

"  Her  woman! " 

"  Well,  yes,  my  dear,  so  she  tells  me,  was  so  frightened 
she  stayed  with  the  carriage.  And  her  friend,  a — another 
lady,  escaped  in  the  dark  with  some  jewels — and " 

"  Michieson  I "  madam  cried,  in  her  most  awful  voice, 
"  did  you  believe  this — this  cock  and  bull  story  that  you 
dare  to  repeat  to  me?  " 

He  glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Well,  my  dear," 
he  answered  in  confusion,  "  I — at  least,  the  lady  told 
me " 

"  Did  you  believe  it?    Yes  or  no!    Did  you  believe  it?  " 

"  Well,  I " 

"  Did  you  go  to  look  for  the  carriage  ?  " 

"  Yes,  -my  dear,  I  did." 

"  And  did  you  find  it?  " 

"  Well,  no,"  the  clergyman  confessed.    "  I  did  not." 

"  Nor  the  servants?  " 

"  No,  but " 

She  did  not  let  him  explain.  "Now,"  she  cried,  with 
shrill  triumph,  "  you  see  what  a  fool  you  are!  And  where 
you'd  be  if  it  were  not  for  me.  Did  she  say  a  word  about 
being  Lady  Coke  until  she  heard  her  name  from  me?  Eh? 
Answer  me  that,  did  she  ?  " 


264  SOPHIA 

Very  miserable,  he  glanced  at  Sophia.  "  Well,  no,  my 
dear,  I  don't  think  she  did!  "  he  admitted. 

"  So  I  thought!  "  madam  cried.  And  then  with  a  cruel 
gesture,  "  off  with  it,  you  baggage!  Off  with  it!  "  she  con- 
tinued. "  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that  the  moment  my 
back  is  turned  you'll  be  gone,  and  a  good  cloak  with  you! 
No,  off  with  it,  my  ragged  madam,  and  thank  your  stars  I 
don't  send  you  to  the  stocks!  " 

But  her  husband  plucked  up  spirit  at  that. 

"  No,"  he  said  firmly.  "  No,  she  shall  keep  the  cloak 
till  she  can  get  a  covering.  For  shame,  wife,  for  shame," 
he  continued  with  a  smack  of  dignity.  "  Do  you  never 
think  that  a  daughter  of  yours  may  some  day  stand  in  her 
shoes?  " 

"  You  fool,  she  has  got  none!  "  his  wife  snarled.  "  And 
you'll  give  her  that  cloak,  at  your  peril." 

"  She  shall  keep  it,  till  she  gets  a  covering,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  she'll  keep  it  somewhere  else,  not  here!  "  the  ter- 
magant answered  in  a  fury.  "  Do  you  call  yourself  a  parson 
and  go  trapesing  the  country  with  a  slut  like  that!  And 
your  lawful  wife  left  at  home?  " 

Sophia,  white  with  exhaustion,  could  scarcely  keep  her 
feet,  but  at  that  she  plucked  up  spirit.  "  The  cloak'  I  shall 
keep,  for  it  is  your  husband's,"  she  said.  "  For  yourself, 
ma'am,  you  will  bitterly  repent  before  the  day  is  out  that 
you  have  treated  me  in  this  way." 

"  Hoity-toity!  you'd  threaten  me,  would  you?  "  the  other 
cried  viciously.  "  Here,  Tom,  Bill!  Ha'  you  no  stones. 
Here's  a  besom  ill-speaking  your  mother.  Ah,  I  thought 
you'd  be  going,  ma'am,"  she  continued,  leaning  over  the 
gate,  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction.  "  It'll  be  in  the  stocks 
you'll  sit  before  the  day  is  out,  Fm  thinking." 

But  Sophia  was  out  of  hearing;  rage  and  indignation 
gave  her  strength.  But  not  for  long.  The  reception  with 
which  she  had  met,  in  a  place  where,  of  all  places,  peace 


A  FRIEND   IN  NEED  265 

and  charity  and  a  seat  for  the  wretched  should  have  been 
found,  broke  down  the  last  remains  of  endurance.  As  soon 
as  the  turn  in  the  road  hid  her  from  the  other  woman's 
eyes,  she  sank  on  a  bank,  unable  to  go  farther.  She  must 
eat  and  drink  and  rest,  or  she  must  die. 

Fortunately,  the  poor  vicar,  worthy  of  a  better  mate,  had 
not  quite  abandoned  her  cause.  After  standing  a  moment 
divided  between  indignation  and  fear,  he  allowed  the  more 
generous  impulse  to  have  way;  he  followed  and  found  her. 
Shocked  to  read  exhaustion  plainly  written  on  her  face, 
horrified  by  the  thought  that  she  might  die  at  his  door,  that 
door  which  day  and  night  should  have  been  open  to  the 
distressed,  he  half  led  and  half  carried  her  to  the  little  gar- 
den house  to  which  his  wife  had  exiled  him;  and  which  by 
goo^  .-fortune  stood  in  an  orchard,  beyond,  but  close  to  the 
curtilage  of  the  house.  Here  he  left  her  a  moment,  and  pro- 
curing the  drudge  of  a  servant  to  hand  him  a  little  bread 
and  milk  over  the  fence,  he  fed  her  with  his  own  hands, 
and  waited  patiently  beside  her  until  the  colour  returned  to 
her  face. 

Eelieved  by  the  sight,  and  satisfied  that  she  was  no  longer 
in  danger,  he  began  to  be  troubled;  glancing  furtively  at  her 
and  away  again,  and  often  moving  to  the  door  of  the  shed, 
which  looked  out  on  a  pleasant  plot  of  grass  dappled  with 
sunlight,  and  overhung  by  drooping  boughs  on  which  the 
late  blossom  lingered.  Finally,  seeing  her  remain  languid 
and  spiritless,  he  blurted  out  what  was  in  his  mind.  "  I 
daren't  keep  you  here,"  he  muttered,  with  a  flush  of  shame. 
"  If  my  wife  discovers  you,  she  may  do  you  a  mischief.  And 
the  fear  of  the  smallpox  is  such,  they'd  stone  you  out  of  the 
parish  if  they  knew  you  had  been  at  Beamond's — God  for- 
give them! " 

Sophia  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  But  I  have 
told  you  who  I  am,"  she  said.  "  I  am  Lady  Coke.  Surely 
you  believe  me." 


266  SOPEIA 

"  Child!  "  he  said  in  a  tone  of  gentle  reproof.  "  Let  be. 
You  don't  know  what  you  say.  There's  not  an  acre 
in  this  parish  is  not  Sir  Hervey's,  nor  a  house,  nor  a  barn. 
Is  it  likely  his  honour's  lady  would  be  wandering  shoeless 
in  the  road?" 

She  laughed  hysterically.  Tragedy  and  comedy  were 
strangely  mingled  this  morning.  "  Yet  it  is  so/'  she  said. 
"  It  is  so." 

He  shook  his  head  in  reproof,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  You  don't  believe  me  ?  "  she  cried.  "  How  far  is  it  to 
Coke  Hall?" 

"  About  three  miles,"  he  answered  unwillingly. 

"  Then  the  doubt  is  solved.  Go  thither!  Go  thither  at 
once ! "  she  continued,  the  power  to  think  returning,  and 
with  it  the  remembrance  of  Lady  Betty's  danger.  "  At 
once!  "  she  repeated,  rising  in  her  impatience,  while  a  flood 
of  colour  swept  over  her  face.  "  You  must  see  Sir  Hervey, 
and  tell  him  that  Lady  Coke  is  here,  and  that  Lady  Betty 
Cochrane  is  missing;  that  we  have  been  robbed,  and  he 
must  instantly,  instantly  before  he  comes  here,  make  search 
for  her." 

The  old  parson  stared.    "  For  whom?  "  he  stammered. 

"  For  Lady  Betty  Cochrane,  who  was  with  me." 

He  continued  to  stare;  with  the  beginnings  of  doubt  in 
his  eyes.  "  Child,"  he  said,  "  are  you  sure  you  are  not  bub- 
bling me?    'Twill  be  a  poor  victory  over  a  simple  old  man." 

"  I  am  not!  I  am  not!  "  she  cried.  And  suddenly  be- 
thinking her  of  the  pocket  that  commonly  hung  between 
the  gown  and  petticoat,  she  felt  for  it.  She  had  placed  her 
rings  as  well  as  her  purse  in  it.  Alas,  it  was  gone!  The 
strings  had  yielded  to  rough  usage. 

None  the  less,  the  action  went  some  way  with  him.  He 
saw  her  countenance  fall,  he  read  the  disappointment  it 
expressed,  he  told  himself  that  if  she  acted,  she  was  the  best 
actress  in  the  world.    "Enough,"   he  said,  almost  per- 


A  FRIEND   IN   NEED  267 

suaded  of  the  truth  of  her  story.  "  I  will  go,  ma'am.  If  'tis 
a  cheat,  I  forgive  you  beforehand.  And  if  it  is  the  cloak  you 
want,  take  it  honestly.    I  give  it  you." 

But  she  looked  at  him  so  wrathfully  at  that,  that  he 
said  no  more,  but  went.  He  took  up  his  stick,  and  as  he 
passed  out  of  sight  among  the  trees  he  waved  his  hand  in 
token  of  forgiveness — if  after  all  she  was  fooling  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    STROLLING   PLAYERS 

He  pushed  on  sturdily  until  he  came  to  the  high  road,  and 
the  turn  that  led  to  Beamond's  farm.  There  his  heart 
began  to  misgive  him.  The  impression  which  Sophia's  man- 
ner had  made  on  his  mind  was  growing  weak;  the  improb- 
ability of  her  story  rose  more  clearly  before  him.  That  a 
woman  tramping  the  roads  in  her  petticoats  could  be  Lady 
Coke,  the  young  bride  of  the  owner  of  all  the  country  side, 
seemed,  now  that  he  weighed  it  in  cold  blood,  impossible. 
And  from  misgiving  he  was  not  slow  in  passing  to  repent- 
ance. How  much  better  it  would  have  been,  he  thought, 
had  he  pursued  his  duty  to  the  dead  and  the  parish  with  a 
single  eye,  instead  of  starting  on  this  wild-goose  chase. 
How  much  better — and  even  now  it  was  not  too  late.  He 
paused;  he  as  good  as  turned.  But  in  the  end  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  given  the  girl  his  word,  and,  turning  his 
back  on  Beamond's  farm,  he  walked  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  saw  a  young  man  of  a 
strange  raffish  appearance  coming  along  the  road  to  meet 
him.  The  man  swung  a  stick  as  he  walked,  and  looked 
about  him  with  a  devil-may-care  air  which  on  the  instant 
led  the  good  parson  to  set  him  down  for  a  strolling  player. 
As  such  he  was  for  passing  him  with  a  good  day,  and  no 
more.  But  the  other,  who  had  also  marked  him  from  a  dis- 
tance, stopped  when  they  came  to  close  quarters. 

268 


THE   STROLLING   PLAYERS  269 

"Well  met,  Master  Parson!"  he  cried.  "And  how  far 
may  you  have  come?  " 

"  A  mile  or  a  little  less/'  the  vicar  answered  mildly.  And 
seeing,  now  that  they  were  face  to  face,  that  the  stranger 
was  little  more  than  a  lad,  he  went  on  to  ask  him  if  he  could 
be  of  service  to  him. 

"  Have  you  seen  a  lady  on  the  road?  " 

The  clergyman  started.  "  Dear,  dear!  "  he  said.  "'Tis 
well  met,  indeed,  sir,  and  a  mercy  you  stayed  me.  To  be 
sure  I  have!  She  is  no  farther  away  than  my  house  at  this 
moment! " 

"The  devil  she  is!"  the  young  man  answered  heartily. 
"  That's  to  the  purpose  then.  I  was  beginning  to  think — 
but  never  mind!  Come  on,  and  tell  her  woman  where  she 
is." 

"  Certainly  I  will.    Is  she  here?  " 

"  She's  sitting  in  the  hedge  at  the  next  corner.  It's 
on  your  way.  Lord! "  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  not  unmixed 
with  pride,  "  what  a  night  I  have  had  of  it!  " 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  his  reverence  said  with  sympathy;  and 
as  they  turned  to  proceed  side  by  side,  he  eyed  his  neighbour 
curiously. 

"  Aye,  indeed,  and  indeed!  "  Tom  answered.  "  You'd  say 
so  if  you'd  been  called  out  of  bed  the  moment  you  were 
in  it,  and  after  a  long  day's  tramp  too!  And  been  dragged 
up  and  down  the  country  the  whole  live-long  night,  my 
friend." 

"  Dear  me;  is  it  so,  sir?  And  you  were  in  her  lady- 
ship's company  when  she  was  stopped,  I  suppose,  sir?  " 

"I?  Not  at  all,  or  it  would  not  have  happened.  I've 
never  set  eyes  on  her." 

"Her  servants  fetched  you  then?" 

"  Her  woman  did!    I've  seen  no  more  of  them." 

The  vicar  pricked  up  his  ears.  "  Nor  the  carriage  ?  "  he 
ventured. 


270  SOPHIA 

"  Not  I.    Hasn't  she  got  the  carriage  with  her?  " 

Mr.  Michieson  rubbed  his  head.  "  No/'  he  said  slowly; 
"no,  she  has  not.  Do  I  understand  then,  sir,  that — that 
you  are  yourself  a  complete  stranger  to  the  parties?  " 

"I?  Totally.  But  here's  her  woman.  She  can  tell  you 
about  it.  Oh,  you  need  not  look  at  me,"  Tom  continued 
with  a  grin,  as  the  vicar,  startled  by  the  sight  of  the  hand- 
some gipsy-like  girl,  looked  at  him  dubiously.  "  She's  a 
pretty  piece,  I  know,  to  be  straying  the  country,  but  I'm 
not  in  fault.  I  never  set  eyes  on  the  little  witch  until  last 
night."  And  then,  "  Here,  child,"  he  cried,  waving  his  hat 
to  her,  "  I've  news!  Your  lady  is  at  the  parson's,  and  all's 
well!  Now  you  can  thank  me  that  I  did  not  let  you  go  into 
the  smallpox." 

Lady  Betty  clasped  her  hands.  Her  face  was  radiant. 
"  Are  you  sure?  Are  you  quite  sure?  "  she  cried,  her  voice 
trembling.    "  Are  you  sure  she  is  safe?  " 

"  She  is  quite  safe,"  Mr.  Michieson  answered  slowly; 
and  he  looked  in  wonder  from  one  to  the  other.  There 
was  something  suspiciously  alike  in  their  tumbled  finery, 
their  dishevelled  appearance.  "  I  was  even  now  on  my 
way,"  he  continued,  "  to  Coke  Hall  to  convey  the  news 
to  Sir  Hervey." 

It  was  Tom's  turn  to  utter  a  cry  of  astonishment.  "  To 
Sir  Hervey?"  he  said.  "To  Sir  Hervey  Coke,  do  you 
mean?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  sir." 

"  But — why,  to  be  sure,  I  might  have  known,"  Tom 
cried.    "  Was  she  going  there?  " 

"  She  is  his  wife,  sir." 

Tom  laughed  with  a  knowing  air.  "  Oh,  but  that's  a  flam 
at  any  rate!  "  he  said.  "  Sir  Hervey's  not  married.  I  saw 
him  myself,  ten  days  ago." 

The  girl  stood  up.    "  Where?  "  she  said. 

"Where?" 


THE   STROLLING  PLATERS  271 

"  Aye,  where,  sir,  where,  since  you  are  so  free  with  his 
name?  " 

"  In  Clarges  Row,  in  London,  if  you  must  know,"  Tom 
answered,  his  face  reddening  at  the  reminiscence.  "  And 
if  he'd  been  married,  or  had  thoughts  of  being  married  then, 
he'd  have  told  me." 

Lady  Betty  stared  at  him,  her  breath  coming  quickly; 
something  began  to  dawn  in  her  eyes.  "  Told  you,  would 
he?"  she  said  slowly.  "He'd  have  told  you?  And  who 
may  you  be,  if  you  please?  " 

"  Well,"  Tom  answered  a  trifle  sharply,  "  my  name  is 
Maitland,  and  for  the  matter  of  that,  my  girl,  you  need 
not  judge  me  by  my  clothes.    I  know  Sir  Hervey,  and " 

He  did  not  finish.  To  his  indignation,  to  the  clergy- 
man's astonishment,  the  girl  went  into  a  fit  of  laughter; 
laughing  till  she  cried,  and  drying  her  eyes  only  that  she 
might  laugh  again.  Sir  Tom  stared  and  fumed  and  swore; 
while  the  vicar  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  asked 
himself — not  for  the  first  time — whether  they  were  acting 
together,  or  the  man  was  as  innocent  as  he  appeared  to  be. 

One  thing  he  could  make  clear,  and  he  hastened  to  do 
it.  "  I  don't  know  why  you  laugh,  child,"  he  said  pa- 
tiently. "  At  the  same  time,  the  gentleman  is  certainly 
wrong  in  the  fact.  Sir  Hervey  Coke  is  married,  for  I  had 
it  from  the  steward  some  days  ago,  and  I  am  to  go  with  the 
tenants  to  the  Hall  to  see  her  ladyship." 

Tom  stared.  "  Sir  Hervey  Coke  married!"  he  cried  in 
amazement,  and  forgot  the  girl's  rudeness.  "  Since  I  saw 
him?  Married?  Impossible!  Whom  do  you  say  he  has 
married?  " 

The  vicar  coughed.    "  Well,  'tis  odd,  sir,  but  it's  a  lady 
of  the  same  name — as  yourself." 
"Maitland?" 

"Yes,  sir!  A  Miss  Maitland,  a  sister  of  Sir  Thomas 
Maitland,  of  Cuckfield." 


272  SOPHIA 

Sir  Tom's  eyes  grew  wide.  "  Good  Lord! "  he  cried; 
"Sophia!" 

"  A  relation,  sir?  Do  I  understand  you  that  she's  of  your 
family?  " 

"  My  sister,  sir;  my  sister." 

The  clergyman  stared  a  moment,  and  then  without  com- 
ment he  walked  aside  and  looked  over  the  hedge.  He 
smiled  feebly  at  the  well-known  prospect.  Was  it  possible, 
he  asked  himself,  that  they  thought  he  could  swallow  this? 
That  they  deemed  him  so  simple,  so  rustic,  that  such  a 
piece  of  play-acting  as  this  could  impose  upon  him?  Be- 
yond a  doubt  they  were  in  league  together;  with  their  fine 
story  and  their  apt  surprise,  and  "  my  lady  "  in  his  garden. 
The  only  point  on  which  he  felt  doubt  was  the  advantage 
they  looked  to  draw  from  it,  since  the  moment  he  reached 
the  Hall  the  bubble  must  burst. 

He  turned  by-and-by,  thinking  in  his  honest  cunning 
to  resolve  that  doubt.  He  found  Tom  in  a  sort  of  maze 
staring  at  the  ground,  and  the  girl  watching  him  with  a 
strange  smile.  For  the  first  time  the  good  vicar  had  re- 
course to  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent.  "  Had  I  not  better 
go  to  the  Hall  at  once,"  he  said  blandly,  "  and  send  a  car- 
riage for  my  lady?  " 

"Go  to  the  Hall  without  seeing  her?"  Tom  cried, 
awakening  from  his  reverie.  "  Not  I !  I  go  to  her  straight. 
Sophia?    Sophia?    Good  Lord!  " 

"  And  so  do  I,  sir,  by  your  leave,"  the  girl  cried  pertly. 
"  And  at  once.    I  know  my  duty." 

"  And  you're  the  man  to  show  us  the  way,"  Tom  con- 
tinued heartily,  slapping  his  reverence  on  the  back.  "  No 
more  going  up  and  down  at  random  for  me!  Let's  to  her 
at  once!  We  can  find  a  messenger  to  go  to  the  Hall,  when 
we  have  seen  her.  But  Lord!  I  can't  get  over  it!  When 
was  she  married,  my  girl?  " 

"  Well,"  Betty  answered  demurely,  ••  'twas  the  same 
day,  I  believe,  as  your  honour  was  to  have  been  married." 


THE   STROLLING  PLAYERS  273 

Tom  winced  and  looked  at  her  askance.  "  You  know 
that,  you  baggage,  do  you?  "  he  cried. 

"  So  it  went  in  the  steward's  room,  sir!  " 

But  the  vicar,  his  suspicions  confirmed  by  their  deci- 
sion not  to  go  to  the  Hall,  hung  back.  "  I  think  I  had 
better  go  on,"  he  said.  "  I  think  Sir  Hervey  should  be 
warned." 

"  Oh,  hang  Sir  Hervey! "  Tom  answered  handsomely. 
"  Why  is  he  not  looking  after  his  wife?  Lead  on!  Lead 
on,  do  you  hear,  man?    How  far  is  it?  " 

"  About  a  mile,"  the  vicar  faltered;  "  I  should  say  a — 
a  long  mile,"  he  added,  as  he  reluctantly  obeyed  the  press- 
ure of  Tom's  hand. 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  it's  no  further! "  the  young  man  an- 
swered. "For  I'm  so  sharp  set  I  could  eat  my  sister. 
You've  parson's  fare,  I  suppose?  Bacon  and  eggs  and  small 
beer?  "  he  continued,  clapping  the  unfortunate  clergyman 
on  the  back  with  the  utmost  good  humour.  "  Well,  sir,  you 
shall  entertain  us!  And  while  we  are  dining,  the  messenger 
can  be  going  to  the  Hall.  Soap  and  a  jack-towel  will  serve 
my  turn,  but  the  girl — what's  your  name,  child?  " 

"  Betty,  sir." 

"  Will  be  the  better  for  the  loan  of  your  wife's  shoes 
and  a  cap!  And  Sophy  is  married?  Where  was  it,  my 
girl?" 

"  At  Dr.  Keith's,  sir." 

"  The  deuce  it  was!  "  Tom  cried  ruefully.  "  Then  that's 
two  hundred  out  of  my  pocket!    Were  you  with  her,  child?  " 

"  No,  sir,  her  ladyship  hired  me  after  she  was  married." 

Tom  looked  at  her.  "But— but  I  thought,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  told  me  last  night  that  you  had  been  brought 
up  with  your  mistress?" 

Betty  bit  her  lip,  unable  to  remember  if  she  had  told 
him  so.    "  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  she  said  hastily,  "  but  that  was 
another  mistress." 
18 


274  SOPHIA 

"  Also  of  the  name  of  Sophia?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  for  which  Sophia — were  you  weeping  last  night?  " 
Tom  asked  with  irony. 

Betty's  face  flamed;  her  fingers  tingled  also,  though  the 
slip  was  her  own.  It  would  have  been  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world  to  throw  off  the  mask,  and  tell  the  young  man 
who  she  was.  But  for  a  reason,  Betty  did  not  choose  to 
adopt  this  course.  Instead,  she  stooped,  pretending  that 
her  shoe-buckle  was  unfastened;  when  she  rose  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  very  unkind,  sir,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
took  a — a  liberty  with  my  mistress  in  calling  her  by  her 
name,  and  I — I  had  to  account  for  it,  and  didn't  tell  quite 
the  truth." 

Tom  was  melted,  yet  his  eye  twinkled.  "  Last  night  or 
to-day?  "  he  said. 

"  Both,  sir,"  she  whispered  demurely.  "  And  I'm  afraid, 
sir,  I  took  a  liberty  with  you,  too,  talking  nonsense  and  such 
like.  But  I'm  sure,  sir — I  am  very  sorry,  and  I  hope  you 
won't  tell  my  mistress." 

The  girl  looked  so  pretty,  so  absurdly  pretty  in  her  peni- 
tence, and  there  was  something  so  captivating  in  her  man- 
ner, that  Tom  was  seized  with  an  inordinate  desire  to  reas- 
sure her.  "Tell,  child?  Not  I!"  he  cried  generously. 
"  But  I'll  have  a  kiss  for  a  forfeit.  You  owe  me  that,"  he 
continued,  with  one  eye  on  the  vicar,  who  had  gone  on 
while  she  tied  her  shoe.  "  Will  you  pay  it  now,  my  dear,  or 
to-morrow  with  interest?" 

"A  kiss?    Oh,  fie,  sir!" 

"  Why,  what  is  the  harm  in  a  kiss?  "  Tom  asked;  and  the 
rogue  drew  a  little  nearer. 

"  Oh,  fie,  sir! "  Betty  retorted,  tossing  her  head,  and 
moving  farther  from  him.  "What  harm  indeed?  And 
you  told  me  last  night  I  should  be  as  safe  with  you  as  my 
mistress  need  be! " 


THE   STROLLING  PLAYERS  275 

"Well?"  Tom  exclaimed  triumphantly.  "And 
shouldn't  I  kiss  your  mistress?  -Isn't  she  my  sister?  And 
— pooh,  child,  don't  be  silly.  Was  ever  waiting-maid  afraid 
of  a  kiss?    And  in  daylight?  " 

But  Betty  continued  to  give  him  a  wide  berth.  "  No, 
sir,  I'll  not  suffer  it!  "  she  cried  tartly.  "  It's  you  who  are 
taking  the  liberty  now!  And  you  told  me  last  night  you 
had  seen  enough  of  women  to  last  you  your  life!  " 

"  That  was  before  I  saw  you,  my  dear! "  Tom  answered 
with  impudence.  But  he  desisted  from  the  pursuit,  and 
resuming  a  sober  course  along  the  middle  of  the  road, 
became  thoughtful  almost  to  moodiness;  as  if  he  were  not" 
quite  so  sure  of  some  things  as  he  had  been.  At  intervals 
he  glanced  at  Betty;  who  walked  by  his  side  primly  con- 
scious of  his  regards,  and  now  blushing  a  little,  and  now 
pouting,  and  now  when  he  was  not  looking,  with  a  laugh- 
ing imp  dancing  in  her  eyes  that  must  have  effected  his 
downfall  in  a  moment,  if  he  had  met  her  gaze.  As  it  was  he 
lost  himself  in  thinking  how  pretty  she  was,  and  how  fresh; 
how  sweet  her  voice,  and  how  dainty  her  walk;  how  trim 
her  figure,  and 

And  then  he  groaned;  calling  himself  a  fool,  a  double, 
treble,  deepest-dyed  fool!  After  the  lesson  he  had  learned, 
after  the  experience  through  which  he  had  passed,  was  he 
really,  really  going  to  fall  in  love  again?  And  with  his 
sister's  maid?  With  a  girl  picked  up — his  vows,  his  oaths, 
his  resolutions  notwithstanding — in  the  road!  It  was  too 
much! 

And  Lady  Betty  walking  beside  him,  knowing  all  and 
telling  nothing,  Betty  the  flirt?  "  He  put  his  coat  on  me; 
I  have  worn  his  coat.  He  said  he  would  tie  me  to  the  gate, 
and  he  would  have  tied  me,"  with  a  furtive  look  at  him  out 
of  the  tail  of  her  eye — that  was  the  air  that  ran  in  her 
mind  as  she  walked  in  the  sunshine.  A  kiss?  Well,  per- 
haps; sometime.    Who  knew?    And  Lady  Betty  blushed  at 


276  SOPHIA 

her  thoughts.  And  they  came  to  a  corner  where  the  gar- 
den house  lay  off  the  road.  The  vicarage  was  not  yet  in 
sight. 

At  the  gate  of  the  orchard  the  poor  parson  waited  for 
them,  smiling  feebly,  but  not  meeting  their  eyes.  He  was 
in  a  state  of  piteous  embarrassment.  Persuaded  that  they 
were  cheats  and  adventurers,  hedge-players,  if  nothing 
worse,  he  knew  that  another  man  in  his  place  would  have 
told  them  as  much,  and  sent  them  about  their  business. 
But  in  the  kindness  of  his  heaxt  he  could  no  more  do  this 
than  he  could  fly.  On  the  other  hand,  his  hair  rose  on  end 
when  he  pictured  his  wife,  and  what  she  would  say  when  he 
presented  them  to  her.  What  she  would  do  were  he  to  de- 
mand the  good  fare  they  expected,  he  failed  to  conceive; 
but  at  the  thought,  the  dense  holly  hedge  that  screened  the 
house  seemed  all  too  thin.  Alas,  the  thickest  hedge  is 
pervious  to  a  woman's  tongue! 

In  the  others'  ease  and  unconsciousness  he  found  some- 
thing pitiful;  or  he  would  have  done  so,  if  their  doom  had 
not  involved  his  own  punishment.  "  She  is  here,  is  she?  " 
Tom  said,  his  hand  on  the  gate. 

The  vicar  nodded,  speechless;  he  pointed  in  the  direction 
of  the  garden  house. 

Betty  slipped  through  deftly.  "  Then,  if  you  please,  sir, 
I'll  go  first,"  she  said.  "  Her  ladyship  may  need  something 
before  she  sees  you — by  your  leave,  sir?  "  And  dropping  a 
smiling  curtsey,  she  coolly  closed  the  gate  on  them,  and 
flew  down  the  path  in  the  direction  the  vicar  had  indicated. 

"  Well,  there's  impudence!  "  Tom  exclaimed.  "  Hang  me 
if  I  know  why  she  should  go  first!  "  And  then,  as  a  joyful 
cry  rang  through  the  trees,  he  looked  at  the  vicar. 

But  Michieson  looked  elsewhere.  He  was  listening,  he 
was  shivering  with  anticipation.  If  that  cry  reached  her! 
Tom,  however,  failed  to  notice  this;  innocent  and  uncon- 
scious, he  opened  the  gate  and  passed  through;  and,  think- 


TEE   (STROLLING   PLAYERS  277 

ing  of  his  sister  and  his  last  parting  from  her,  went  slowly 
across  the  sunlit  grass  until  the  low-hanging  boughs  of  the 
apple-trees  hid  him. 

The  parson  looked  up  and  down  the  road  with  a  hunted 
eye.  The  position  was  terrible.  Should  he  go  to  his  wife, 
confess  and  prepare  her?  Or  should  he  wait  until  his  un- 
welcome guests  returned  to  share  the  brunt.  Or — or 
should  he  go?  Go  about  his  business — was  there  not  sad, 
pressing  business  at  Beamond's  farm? — until  the  storm  was 
overpast. 

He  was  a  good  man,  but  he  was  weak.  A  few  seconds 
of  hesitation,  and  he  skulked  down  the  road,  his  head  bent, 
his  eyes  glancing  backwards.  He  fancied  that  he  heard  his 
wife's  voice,  and  hurried  faster  and  faster  from  the  dreaded 
sound.  At  length  he  reached  the  main  road  and  stood,  his 
face  hot  with  shame.    He  considered  what  he  should  do. 

Beamond's?  Yes,  he  must  go  about  that.  He  must,  to 
save  his  self-respect,  go  about  business  of  some  kind.  At 
a  large  farm  two  miles  away  his  churchwarden  lived;  there 
he  could  get  help.  The  farmer  and  his  wife  had  had  the 
disease,  and  were  in  less  terror  of  it  than  some.  At  any 
rate  he  could  consult  them:  in  a  Christian  parish  people 
could  not  lie  unburied.  In  vital  matters  he  was  no  coward, 
and  he  knew  that  if  no  one  would  help  him — which  was 
possible,  so  great  was  the  panic — he  would  do  all  himself, 
if  his  strength  held  out. 

In  turning  this  over  he  tried  to  forget  the  foolish  im- 
broglio of  the  morning;  yet  now  and  again  he  winced, 
pricked  in  his  conscience  and  his  manhood.  After  all,  they 
had  come  to  him  for  help,  for  food  and  shelter;  and  who  so 
proper  to  afford  these  as  God's  minister  in  that  place.  At 
worst  he  should  have  sent  them  to  one  of  the  farms,  and 
allowed  it  out  of  the  tithe,  and  taken  the  chance  when 
Easter  came,  and  Peg  discovered  it.  Passing  the  branch- 
road  on  his  left,  which  Tom  and  Betty  had  taken  in  the 


278  SOPHIA 

night,  he  had  a  distant  view  of  a  horseman  riding  that  way 
at  speed:  and  he  wondered  a  little,  the  sight  being  unusual. 
Three  minutes  later  he  came  to  the  roadside  ale-house 
which  Betty  had  visited.  The  goodwife  was  at  the  door, 
and  watched  him  come  up.  As  he  passed  she  cried  out,  to 
learn  if  his  reverence  had  news. 

"  None  that's  good,  Nanny,"  he  answered;  never  doubt- 
ing but  she  had  the  illness  at  Beamond's  on  her  mind. 
And  declining  her  offer  of  a  mug  of  ale  he  went  on,  and 
half  a  mile  farther  turned  off  the  road  by  a  lane  that  led 
to  the  churchwarden's  farm.  He  crossed  the  farmyard, 
and  found  Mrs.  Benacre  sitting  within  the  kitchen  door, 
picking  over  gooseberries.  He  begged  her  not  to  move,  and 
asked  if  the  goodman  was  at  home. 

"  No,  your  reverence,  he's  at  the  Hall,"  she  answered. 
"  He  was  leaving  hay  in  the  Furlongs,  and  was  fetched  all 
in  a  minute  this  hour  past,  and  took  the  team  with  him. 
The  little  lad  came  home  and  told  me." 

The  vicar  started,  and  looked  a  little  odd.  "  I  wanted  to 
see  him.  about  poor  Beamond,"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  true,  then,  your  reverence?" 

"  Too  true.  There's  nothing  like  it  happened  in  the 
parish  in  my  time." 

"Dear,  dear,  it  gives  one  the  creeps!  After  all,  when 
you've  got  a  good  husband,  what's  a  little  marking,  and 
be  safe?  There  should  be  something  done,  your  reverence. 
'Tis  these  gipsies  bring  it  about." 

The  vicar  set  back  the  fine  gooseberry  he  had  selected. 
"  What  time  did  her  ladyship  arrive  yesterday?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Benacre  lifted  up  her  hands  in  astonishment.  "  La, 
didn't  you  hear?  "  she  cried.  "  But  to  be  sure,  you're  off 
the  road  a  good  bit,  and  all  your  people  so  taken  up  with 
they  poor  Beamonds  too?  No  time  at  all,  your  reverence! 
She  didn't  come.  I  take  it,  it's  about  that,  Sir  Hervey  has 
sent  for  Benacre.    He  thinks  a  deal  of  him,  as  his  father 


THE    STROLLING   PLAYERS  279 

before  him  did  of  the  old  gaffer!  I  remember  a  cocking 
was  at  the  Hall,"  Mrs.  Benacre  continued,  "when  I  was 
a  girl — 'twas  a  match  between  the  gentlemen  of  Sussex  and 
the  gentlemen  of  Essex — and  the  old  squire  would  have 
Benacre's  father  to  dine  with  them,  and  made  so  much  of 
him  as  never  was!  " 

The  vicar  had  listened  without  hearing.  "  She  stopped 
the  night  in  Lewes,  I  suppose?"  he  said,  his  eyes  on  the 
gooseberries,  his  heart  bumping. 

"  'Twasn't  known,  the  squire  being  at  Lewes  to  meet 
her.  And  to-da.y  I've  had  more  to  do  than  to  go  fetch- 
ing and  carrying,  and  never  a  soul  to  speak  to  but  they  two 
hussies  and  the  lad,  since  Benacre  went  on  the  land.  There, 
your  reverence,  there's  a  berry  should  take  a  prize  so  far 
away  as  Croydon." 

"  Very  fine,"  the  parson  muttered.  "  But  I  think  I'll 
walk  to  the  Hall  and  inquire." 

"  'T would  be  very  becoming,"  Mrs.  Benacre  allowed;  and 
made  him  promise  he  would  bring  back  the  news. 

As  he  went  down  the  lane,  he  saw  two  horsemen  pass 
the  end  of  it  at  a  quick  trot.  "When  he  reached  the  road, 
the  riders  were  out  of  sight;  but  his  heart  misgave  him  at 
this  sign  of  unusual  bustle.  A  quarter  of  an  hour's  walking 
along  a  hot  road  brought  him  to  the  park  gate;  it  was  open, 
and  in  the  road  was  the  lodge-keeper's  wife,  a  child  cling- 
ing to  her  skirts.  Before  he  could  speak,  "  Has  your  rever- 
ence any  news  ?  "  she  cried. 
He  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  was  ever  such  a  thing?  "  she  exclaimed,  lifting 
up  her  hands.  "  They're  gone  to  be  sure,  as  if  the  ground 
had  swallowed  them.  It's  that,  or  the  rogues  ha'  drowned 
them  in  the  Ouse!  " 

He  felt  himself  shrinking  in  his  clothes.  "  How — how 
did  it  happen?  "  he  muttered  faintly.  What  had  he  done? 
What  had  he  done? 

"  The  postboys  left  them  in  the  carriage  the  other  side 


280  SOPHIA 

of  Beamond's,"  the  woman  answered,  delighted  to  gain  a 
listener.  "  And  went  back  with  fresh  horses,  I  suppose 
it  would  be  about  seven  this  morning;  they  could  not  get 
them  in  the  night.  They  found  the  carriage  gone,  and 
tracked  it  back  so  far  almost  as  Chayley,  and  there  found 
it,  and  the  woman  and  the  two  grooms  with  it;  but  not  one 
of  them  could  give  any  account,  except  that  their  ladyships 
had  been  carried  off  by  a  gang  of  men,  and  they  three  had 
harnessed  up  and  escaped.  The  postboys  came  back  with 
the  news,  and  about  the  same  time  Mr.  Watkyns  came  by 
the  main  road  through  Lewes,  and  knew  naught  till  he 
was  here!  He  was  fit  to  kill  himself  when  he  found  her 
ladyship  was  gone,"  the  woman  continued  with  zest;  "  and 
Sir  Hervey  was  fit  to  kill  'em  all,  and  serve  'em  right;  and 
now  they  are  searching  the  country,  and  a  score  with  them; 
but  it's  tolerable  sure  the  villains  ha'  got  away  with  my 
lady,  some  think  by  Newhaven  and  foreign  parts!  What? 
Isn't  your  reverence  going  to  the  house?  " 

"  No,"  his  reverence  muttered,  with  a  sickly  smile. 
"  No."  And  he  turned  from  the  cool  shadows  of  the  chest- 
nut avenue,  that  led  to  the  Hall,  and  setting  his  face  the 
way  he  had  come,  hastened  through  the  heat.  He  might 
still  prevent  the  worst!  He  might  still — but  he  must  get 
home.  He  must  get  home.  He  had  walked  three  miles  in 
forty  minutes  in  old  days;  he  must  do  it  now.  True,  the 
sun  was  midsummer  high,  the  time  an  hour  after  noon,  the 
road  straight  and  hot,  and  unshaded,  his  throat  was 
parched,  and  he  was  fasting.  But  he  must  press  on.  He 
must  press  on,  though  his  legs  began  to  tremble  under 
him — and  he  was  not  so  young  as  he  had  been.  There  was 
the  end  of  Benacre's  Lane!  He  had  done  a  mile;  but  his 
knees  were  shaky,  he  must  sit  a  moment  on  the  bank.  He 
did  so,  and  found  the  trees  begin  to  dance  before  his  eyes, 
his  thoughts  to  grow  confused;  frightened  he  tried  to  rise, 
but  instead  he  sank  in  a  swoon,  and  lay  inert  at  the  foot  of 
the  bank. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

'tis  go  or  swim 

It  was  a  strange  meeting  between  brother  and  sister.  Tom, 
mindful  how  they  had  parted  in  Clarges  Row,  and  with 
what  loyalty  she  had  striven  to  save  him  from  himself — 
at  a  time  when  he  stood  in  the  utmost  need  of  such  efforts 
— was  softened  and  touched  beyond  the  ordinary.  While 
Sophia,  laughing  and  crying  at  once  in  the  joy  of  a  meet- 
ing as  unexpected  as  it  was  welcome,  experienced  as  she 
held  Tom  in  her  arms  something  nearer  akin  to  happiness 
than  had  been  hers  since  her  marriage.  The  gratitude  she 
owed  to  Providence  for  preservation  amid  the  dangers  of 
the  night  strengthened  this  feeling;  the  sunshine  that 
flooded  the  orchard,  the  verdure  under  foot,  the  laden 
sprays  of  blossom  overhead,  the  songs  of  the  birds,  the  very 
strangeness  of  the  retreat  in  which  they  met,  all  spoke  to  a 
heart  peculiarly  open  at  that  moment  to  receive  impres- 
sions. Tom  recovered,  Tom  kind,  formed  part  of  the  world 
which  welcomed  her  back,  and  shamed  her  repining;  while 
her  brother,  sheepish  and  affectionate,  marvelled  to  see  the 
little  sister  whom  he  had  patronised  all  his  life,  suddenly 
and  wonderfully  transmogrified  into  Lady  Coke. 

He  asked  how  she  came  to  be  so  oddly  dressed,  learned 
that  she  also  had  fallen  in  with  the  vicar;  and,  when  he  had 
heard:  "  Well,"  he  exclaimed,  "  'tis  the  luckiest  thing  your 
woman  met  me  I  ever  knew! " 

"You  might  have  been  in  any  part  of  England!"  she 

281 


282  SOPHIA 

answered,  smiling  through  her  tears.  "  Where  were  you 
going,  Tom?  " 

"  Why,  to  Coke's  to  be  sure,"  he  replied;  "  and  wanted 
only  two  or  three  miles  of  it!  " 

"  Not — not  knowing?  "  she  asked.     And  she  blushed. 

"  Not  the  least  in  life!  I  was  on  the  point  of  enlisting," 
he  explained,  colouring  in  his  turn,  "  at  Beading,  in  Tat- 
ton's  foot,  when  a  man  he  had  sent  in  search  of  me,  found 
me  and  gave  me  a  note." 

"  From  Sir  Hervey?  " 

"  Of  course,"  Tom  answered,  "  telling  me  I  could  stay 
at  the  Hall  until  things  blew  over.  And — and  not  to  make 
a  fool  of  myself,"  he  added  ingenuously.  "  'Twas  like  him 
and  I  knew  it  was  best  to  come,  but  when  I  was  nearly 
there — that  was  last  night,  you  know — I  thought  I  would 
wait  until  morning  and  hear  who  were  in  the  house  before 
I  showed  myself.  That  is  why  Mistress  Betty  found  me 
where  she  did." 

Sophia  could  not  hide  her  feelings  on  learning  what  Sir 
Hervey  had  done  for  Tom  and  for  her;  what  he  had  done 
silently,  without  boasting,  without  telling  her.  Tom  saw 
her  tremble,  saw  that  for  some  reason  she  was  on  the  verge 
of  tears,  and  he  wondered. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  what  is  the  matter,  Sophy?  What 
is  it  now?  " 

"  It's  nothing,  nothing,"  she  answered  hurriedly. 

"  I  know  what  it  is!  "  he  replied.  "  You've  been  up  all 
night,  and  had  nothing  to  eat.  You  will  be  all  right  when 
you  have  had  a  meal.  The  old  parson  said  he'd  give  us 
bacon  and  eggs.    It  should  be  ready  by  this  time." 

Sophia  laughed  hysterically.  "  I  fear  it  doesn't  lie  with 
him,"  she  said.  "  His  wife  would  not  let  me  into  the  house. 
She's  afraid  of  the  smallpox." 

"  Pooh!  "  Tom  said  contemptuously.  "  When  she  knows 
who  we  are  she'll  sing  another  tune." 


'TIS  GO  OR  SWIM  283 

"  She  won't  believe,"  Sophia  answered. 

"  She'll  believe  me,"  Tom  said.    "  So  let  us  go." 

"  Do  you  go  first,  sir,  if  you  please,"  Lady  Betty  cried 
pertly,  intervening  for  the  first  time.  She  had  stood  a 
little  apart  to  allow  the  brother  and  sister  to  be  private. 
"  I'm  sure  her  ladyship's  not  fit  to  be  seen.  And  I'm  not 
much  better,"  she  added;  and  then,  a  sudden  bubble  of 
laughter  rising  to  the  surface,  she  buried  her  face  in 
Sophia's  skirts,  and  affected  to  be  engaged  in  repairing  the 
disorder.  Tom  saw  his  sister's  face  relax  in  a  smile,  and 
he  eyed  the  maid  suspiciously;  but  before  he  could  speak, 
Sophia  also  begged  him  to  go,  and  see  what  reception  the 
old  clergyman  had  secured  for  them.    He  turned  and  went. 

At  the  gate  he  looked  back,  but  a  wealth  of  apple  blos- 
som intervened;  he  did  not  see  that  the  girls  had  flown 
into  one  another's  arms,  nor  did  he  hear  them  laughing, 
crying,  asking,  answering,  all  at  once,  and  out  of  the  ful- 
ness of  thankful  hearts.  Tom's  wholesome  appetite  began 
to  cry  cupboard.  He  turned  briskly  up  the  road,  discov- 
ered the  wicket-gate  of  the  parsonage,  and  marching  to  it, 
found  to  his  surprise  that  it  was  locked.  The  obstacle  was 
not  formidable  to  youth,  but  the  welcome  was  cold  at  best; 
and  where  was  his  friend  the  parson?  In  wonder  he  rat- 
tled the  gate,  thinking  some  one  would  come;  but  no  one 
came,  and  out  of  patience  he  vaulted  over  the  post,  and 
passing  round  a  mass  of  rose  bushes  that  grew  in  a  tangle 
about  the  pot-herb  garden,  he  saw  the  door  of  the  house 
standing  ajar  before  him. 

One  moment;  the  next  and  before  he  could  reach  it, 
a  boy  about  twelve  years  old,  with  a  shock  of  hair  and 
sullen  eyes,  looked  out,  saw  him,  and  hastened  to  slam 
the  door  in  his  face.  The  action  was  unmistakable,  the 
meaning  plain;  Sir  Tom  stood,  stared,  and  after  a  moment 
swore.  Then  in  a  rage  he  advanced  and  kicked  the  door. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried.  "  Open,  sirrah,  do  you 
hear?    Are  these  your  manners?" 


284  SOPHIA 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  silence  in  the  sunny  herb 
garden  with  its  laden  air  and  perfumed  hedges.  Then  a 
casement  above  creaked  open,  and  two  heads  peered  cau- 
tiously over  the  window-ledge.  "  Do  you  hear?  "  Tom 
cried,  quickly  espying  them.  "  Come  down  and  open  the 
door,  or  you'll  get  a  whipping." 

But  the  boys,  the  one  he  had  seen  at  the  door,  and  an- 
other, a  year  or  two  older,  preserved  a  sulky  silence;  eyeing 
him  with  evident  dread  and  at  the  same  time  with  a  kind 
of  morbid  curiosity.  Tom  threatened,  stormed,  even  took 
up  a  stone;  they  answered  nothing  and  it  was  only  when  he 
had  begun  to  retreat,  fuming,  towards  the  gate  that  one  of 
them  found  his  voice. 

"You'd  better  be  gone!"  he  cried  shrilly.  "They  are 
coming  for  you." 

Sir  Tom  turned  at  the  sound,  and  went  back  at  a  white 
heat.  "What  do  you  mean,  you  young  cubs?"  he  cried, 
looking  up.    "  Who  are  coming  for  me?  " 

But  they  were  dumb  again,  staring  at  him  over  the  ledge 
with  sombre  interest.  Tom  repeated  his  question,  scolded, 
even  raised  his  stone,  but  without  effect.  At  last  he  turned 
his  back  on  them,  and  in  a  rage  flung  out  of  the  garden. 

He  went  out  as  he  had  entered,  by  vaulting  the  gate. 
As  he  did  so,  he  heard  a  woman's  shrill  voice  raised  in 
anger;  and  he  looked  in  the  direction  whence  it  came.  He 
saw  a  knot  of  people  coming  down  the  road.  It  consisted 
of  three  or  four  women,  and  a  rough-looking  labourer;  but 
while  he  stood  eyeing  them  a  second  party,  largely  made  up 
of  men  and  boys,  came  in  sight,  following  the  other;  and 
tailing  behind  these  again  came  a  couple  of  women  and 
last  of  all  two  or  three  lads.  The  women  speaking  loudly, 
with  excited  gestures,  appeared  to  be  scolding  the  men; 
those  on  the  outside  of  each  rank  hurrying  a  step  in  ad- 
vance of  the  others,  and  addressing  them  with  turned 
heads.    Tom  watched  them  a  moment,  thinking  that  they 


'TIS  GO  OR  SWIM  285 

might  be  a  search  party  sent  by  Coke;  then  he  reflected  that 
the  noise  would  alarm  his  sister,  and  turning  in  at  the  gate 
he  crossed  the  orchard. 

Sophia  came  to  meet  him.  "  What  is  it?  "  she  asked 
anxiously.  "What  is  the  matter,  Tom?"  The  clamour 
of  strident  voices,  the  scolding  of  the  women  had  preceded 
him.  "Have  you  seen  the  clergyman?  Why,  they  are 
coming  here! " 

"  The  deuce  they  are!  "  Tom  answered.  He  looked  back, 
and  seeing  through  the  trees  that  the  man  with  the  first 
gang  had  opened  the  gate  of  the  orchard,  he  went  to  meet 
him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  "What  are  you  doing  here? 
Has  Sir  Hervey  sent  you?" 

"  We  want  no  sending!  "  one  of  the  women  cried  sharply. 
"  'Tis  enough  to  send  us  of  ourselves." 

"  Aye,  so  it  is!  "  a  second  chimed  in  with  violence.  "  And 
do  you  keep  your  distance  if  you  be  one  of  them!  Let's 
have  no  nonsense,  master,  for  we  won't  stand  it!  " 

"No,  no  nonsense!"  cried  another,  as  the  larger  party 
arrived  and  raised  the  number  to  something  like  a  score. 
"  She's  got  to  go,  and  you  with  her  if  you  be  one  of  her 
company!  Ain't  that  so?  "  the  speaker  continued,  turning 
to  her  backers. 

"Aye,  she  must  go!"  cried  one.  "We'll  ha'  no  small- 
pox here!  "  cried  another.  "  She'll  go  or  swim!  Out  of  the 
parish,  I  say!  "  shrieked  a  third. 

Tom  looked  along  the  line  of  excited  faces,  faces  stupid 
or  cruel;  at  the  best  of  a  low  type,  and  now  brutalised  by 
selfish  panic.  And  his  heart  sank.  But  for  the  present  he 
neither  blenched  nor  lost  his  temper. 

"  Why,  you  fools,"  he  said,  thinking  to  reason  with 
them,  "  don't  you  know  who  the  lady  is?  " 

"No,  nor  care!"  was  the  shrill  retort.  "Nor  care,  do 
you  understand  that?" 


286  SOPHIA 

And  then  a  man  stepped  forward.  "  She's  got  to  go," 
he  said,  "  whoever  she  be.    That's  all." 

"  I  tell  you,  you  don't  know  who  she  is,"  Tom  answered 
stubbornly.     "Whose  tenant  are  you,  my  man?" 

"  Sir  Hervey's,  to  be  sure,"  the  fellow  answered,  sur- 
prised at  the  question. 

"  Well,  she's  his  wife,"  Tom  answered.  "  Do  you  hear? 
Do  you  understand?"  he  repeated,  with  growing  indig- 
nation. "  She  is  Lady  Coke,  Sir  Hervey's  wife.  Lady 
Coke,  Sir  Hervey's  wife!  Get  that  into  your  heads,  will 
you!  His  wife,  I  tell  you.  And  if  you  raise  a  finger  or 
wag  a  tongue  against  her,  you'll  repent  it  all  your  lives." 

The  man  stared,  doubting,  hesitating,  in  part  daunted. 
But  a  woman  behind  him — a  lean  vixen,  her  shoulders 
barely  covered  by  a  meagre  kerchief,  pushed  herself  to  the 
front,  and  snapped  her  fingers  in  Tom's  face.  "  That,  my 
lady?"  she  cried.  "That  for  the  lie.  You  be  a  liar,  my 
lad,  that's  what  you  be!  A  liar,  and  ought  to  swim  with 
her.  Neighbours,"  the  shrew  continued  volubly,  "  she  be 
no  more  my  lady  than  I  be.  Madam  told  me  she  faked  for 
to  be  it,  but  was  a  gipsy  wench  as  had  laid  the  night  at 
Beamond's,  and  now  was  for  'fecting  us." 

"  Anyway  she  don't  go  another  step  into  this  parish," 
pronounced  an- elderly  man,  something  better  off  than  the 
others.  "  We  don't  want  to  swim  her,  and  we  don't  want  to 
stone  her,  but  she  must  go,  or  worse  come  of  it.  And  you, 
my  lad,  if  you  be  with  her,  and  the  other."  For  Lady  Betty 
had  crept  timidly  out  of  the  garden-shed  and  joined  the 
pair. 

Tom  was  bursting  with  passion.  "  I!  "  he  cried.  "  You 
clod,  do  you  know  who  I  am?  I  am  Sir  Thomas  Maitland, 
of  Cuckfield." 

"  Sir,  or  no  sir,  you'll  ha'  to  go,"  the  man  retorted  stub- 
bornly. He  was  a  dull  fellow,  and  an  unknown  Sir  Thomas 
was  no  more  to  him  than  plain  Tom  or  Dick.  "  And  'tis 
best,  with  no  more  words,"  he  continued  heavily. 


'TIS  GO  OR  SWIM  287 

Tom,  enraged,  was  for  answering  in  the  same  strain, 
but  Sophia  plucked  his  sleeve,  and  took  the  word  herself. 
"  I  am  quite  willing  to  go,"  she  said,  holding  her  head  up 
bravely.  "  If  you  let  me  pass  safely  to  the  Hall,  that  is  all 
I  ask." 

"To  the  Hall?" 

"Yes,  to  my  husband." 

"To  the  Hall  indeed!  No!  No!  That's  likely,"  cried 
the  crowd;  and  were  not  to  be  silenced  till  the  elderly 
farmer  who  had  spoken  before  raised  his  hand  for  a  hearing. 

"  'Tis  no  wonder  they  shout,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  half- 
cunning,  half-stupid.  "The  Hall?  No,  no.  Back  by 
Beamond's  and  over  the  water,  my  girl,  you'll  go,  same  as 
Beamond's  folk  did.  There's  few  live  the  other  side,  and 
so  the  fewer  to  take  it,  d'ye  see.  Besides,  'tis  every  one  for 
himself." 

"Aye!  aye!"  the  crowd  cried.  "He's  right;  that  way, 
no  other!  Hall  indeed?"  And  at  the  back  they  began 
to  jeer. 

"You've  no  law  for  this?"  Tom  cried,  furious  and 
panting. 

"  Then  we'll  make  a  law,"  they  answered,  and  jeered 
again,  with  some  words  that  were  not  very  fit  for  the  ladies 
to  hear. 

Tom,  at  that,  would  have  sprung  at  the  nearest  and 
punished  him;  but  Sophia  held  him  back.  "  No,  no,"  she 
said  in  a  low  tone.  "  We  had  better  go.  Sir  Hervey  is 
surely  searching  for  us.  We  may  meet  him,  and  they  will 
learn  their  mistake.  Please  let  us  go.  Let  us  go  quickly, 
or  they  may — I  do  not  know  what  they  may  do." 

Tom  suffered  himself  to  be  convinced;  but  he  made  the 
mistake  of  doing  with  a  bad  grace  that  which  he  had  to  do 
whether  he  would  or  no. 

"  Out  of  the  way,  you  clods!  "  he  cried,  advancing  on 
them  with  his  stick  raised.  "You'll  sing  another  tune  be- 
fore night!    Do  you  hear,  I  say?    Out  of  the  way!  " 


288  SOPHIA 

Moving  sullenly,  they  left  his  front  open;  and  he 
marched  proudly  through  the  gate  of  the  orchard,  Sophia 
and  Betty  beside  him.  But  his  challenge  had  raised  the 
devil  that  lies  dormant  in  the  most  peaceful  crowd.  He 
had  no  sooner  passed  than  the  women  closed  in  upon  his 
rear,  and  followed  him  with  taunts  and  laughter.  And 
presently  a  boy  threw  a  stone. 

It  fell  short  of  the  mark;  but  another  stone  followed, 
and  another;  and  the  third  struck  Tom  on  the  leg.  He 
wheeled  round  in  a  towering  passion,  caught  sight  of  the 
offender,  and  made  for  him.  The  boy  tripped  in  trying  to 
escape,  and  fell,  shrieking.  Tom  got  home  two  cuts;  then 
a  virago,  her  tongue  spitting  venom,  her  nails  in  the  air, 
confronted  him  over  the  body  of  the  fallen,  and  he  returned 
sullenly  to  his  charges,  and  resumed  his  retreat. 

But  the  boy's  screams  had  exasperated  the  rabble. 
Groans  took  the  place  of  laughter,  curses  succeeded  jeers. 
The  bolder  threw  dirt,  the  more  timid  hooted  and  booed, 
while  all  pressed  more  and  more  closely  on  his  heels, 
threatening  every  moment  to  jostle  him.  Tom  had  to  turn 
and  brandish  his  stick  to  drive  them  back,  and  rinding  that 
even  so  he  could  scarcely  secure  the  briefest  respite,  he 
began  to  grow  hot  and  confused,  and  looked  about  for  a 
way  of  escape  in  something  between  rage  and  terror. 

To  run,  he  knew,  would  only  precipitate  the  disaster. 
To  defend  himself  was  scarcely  possible,  for  Sophia,  fearing 
he  would  attempt  reprisals,  hampered  him  on  one  side, 
while  Betty,  in  pure  fear,  clung  to  him  on  the  other.  Both 
were  sinking  with  apprehension,  while  his  ears  tingled 
under  the  coarse  jeers  and  coarser  epithets  that  were  hurled 
at  them.  Yet  he  dared  not  suffer  them  to  move  a  pace 
from  him.  Cries  of  "  Boll  them!  Duck  them!  To  the 
pond! "  began  to  be  heard;  and  once  he  barely  checked  an 
ugly  rush  by  facing  about  at  the  last  moment.  At  last  he 
espied  a  little  before  him  the  turning  into  the  main  road, 


'TIS  GO  OR  SWIM  289 

and  whispering  to  the  women  to  keep  up  their  courage,  he 
pressed  sullenly  towards  it. 

He  had  as  good  as  reached  it,  when  a  stone  more  weighty 
and  better  aimed  than  those  which  had  preceded  it,  struck 
Lady  Betty  fairly  between  the  shoulders.  The  girl  stum- 
bled forward  with  a  gasp,  and  Sophia,  horror-stricken  and 
uncertain  how  much  she  was  hurt,  sprang  to  her  side  to 
hold  her  up.  The  movement  freed  Tom's  arm;  his  sister's 
furious  cry,  "  You  cowards!  Oh,  you  cowards!  "  burned  up 
the  last  shred  of  his  self-control. 

In  a  tempest  of  rage  he  rushed  on  the  nearest  hobble- 
dehoy, and  felling  him  with  his  stick,  rained  blows  upon 
him.  In  an  instant  he  was  engaged,  hand  to  hand,  with 
half  a  dozen  combatants. 

Unfortunately  the  charge  had  carried  him  a  dozen  yards 
from  his  companions;  the  more  timid  of  the  rascals,  who 
were  not  eager  to  encounter  him  or  his  stick,  saw  their 
opportunity.  In  a  twinkling  they  cut  off  the  two  girls,  and 
hemmed  them  in.  Beginning  with  pushing  and  jostling 
them  they  would  soon  have  gone  on  to  further  insults  if 
Sophia  had  not  flown  at  them  in  her  turn,  and  repelled 
them  with  a  rage  that  for  a  few  seconds  daunted  them. 
Tom,  too,  heard  the  girls'  cries,  and  turned  to  relieve  them; 
but  as  he  sprang  forward  a  boy  tripped  him  up,  and  he  fell 
prone  on  the  road. 

That  gave  the  last  impulse  to  the  evil  instincts  of  the 
crowd.  The  louts  darted  on  him  with  a  savage  yell,  and 
began  to  pommel  him;  and  ill  it  must  have  gone  with  Tom 
as  well  as  with  his  womenfolk  if  the  crowd  had  had  their 
way  with  them  for  many  seconds. 

But  at  that  critical  instant,  without  warning,  or  any  at 
least  that  the  victors  regarded,  the  long  lash  of  a  hunting- 
whip  flickered  in  the  air,  and  fell  as  by  magic  between  the 
girls  and  their  assailants; it  seared, as  with  a  red-hot  iron,  the 
hand  which  a  sturdy  young  clown,  half-boy,  half-man,  was 
19 


290  SOPHIA 

brandishing  under  Sophia's  nose;  it  stung  with  the  sharp- 
ness of  a  dozen  wasps  the  mocking  face  that  menaced  Betty 
on  the  other  side.  The  lads  who  had  flung  themselves  on 
Tom,  awoke  with  yells  of  pain  to  find  the  same  whip  curl- 
ing about  their  shoulders,  and  to  see  behind  it,  set  in  gi-im 
rage,  the  face  of  their  landlord. 

That  instant,  the  harpies,  who  had  been  hounding  them 
on,  vanished  as  by  magic,  scuttling  all  ways  like  frightened 
hens.  And  Sir  Hervey  let  them  go — for  the  time;  but 
behind  the  lads  and  louts,  fleeing  and  panting  and  racing 
and  sweating  down  the  road,  and  aiming  fruitlessly  at  gates 
and  gaps,  the  lash  fell  ever  and  mercilessly  on  sturdy  backs 
and  fleshy  legs.  The  horse  he  rode  was  an  old  hunter, 
known  in  the  district,  quick  and  cunning,  broken  to  all 
turns  of  the  hare;  and  that  day  it  carried  fate,  and  punish- 
ment with  no  halting  foot  followed  hard  upon  the  sin ! 

Sobbing  with  exhaustion,  with  labouring  chests  that  at 
intervals  shot  forth  cries  of  pain,  as  the  flickering  thong 
licked  their  hams,  and  they  bounded  like  deer  under  the 
sting,  the  bullies  came  at  last  to  the  vicarage  gate.  There 
Sir  Hervey  left  them,  free  at  last  to  rub  their  weals  and 
curse  their  folly;  sorer,  but  it  is  to  be  hoped  wiser  men. 

Sophia,  supporting  herself  by  a  gate,  and  now  laughing 
hysterically,  now  repressing  with  difficulty  the  inclination 
to  weep,  watched  him  return.  She  saw  him  through  a  mist 
of  smiles  and  tears.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  that  he 
was  her  husband,  forgot  that  this  was  the  meeting  so  long 
and  greatly  dreaded. 

He  sprang  from  his  horse. 

"  You're  not  hurt?  "  he  cried.    "  Child "  and  then, 

with  astonishment  she  saw  that  he  was  speechless. 

Her  own  words  came  easily;  even  her  manner  was  eager 
and  unembarrassed.  "No,"  she  cried,  "nor  Lady  Betty! 
You  came  just  in  time,  Sir  Hervey." 

"  Thank 'God,  I  did,"  he  answered;  "  thank  God!    And 


'TIS  GO  OR  SWIM  291 

you  are  sure,  child,  you  are  none  the  worse?    You  are  not 
hurt?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  laughing,  as  people  laugh  in  mo- 
ments of  agitttion.  "  Not  a  bit!  You  are  looking  at  my 
dress?  Oh,  we  have  had  adventures,  a  vast  lot  of  advent- 
ures, Sir  Hervey !  It  would  take  a  day  to  tell  them,  wouldn't 
it,  Betty?  Betty's  my  maid,  Sir  Hervey."  She  was  above 
herself.  She  spoke  gaily  and  archly,  as  Betty  might  have 
spoken. 

"  Lady  Betty  your  maid  ? "  he  exclaimed,  turning  to 
Betty,  who  blushed  and  laughed.    "  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"Mean?  Why  only — hush,  where  is  Tom?  Oh,  repair- 
ing himself!  Why,  only  a  frolic,  Sir  Hervey!  Tom  took 
her  for  my  woman,  and  we  want  to  keep  him  in  it!  So  not 
a  word,  if  you  please.  This  is  Betty  the  maid,  you'll 
remember?  " 

"  I  obey,"  Sir  Hervey  answered.  "  But  to  tell  the  truth," 
he  continued  soberly,  "  my  head  turns.  Where  did  you 
meet  Tom,  my  dear?  What  has  happened  to  you?  And 
why  are  you  wearing — that  queer  cloak?  And  where  are 
your  shoes?  " 

"  It's  not  very  becoming,  is  it?  "  she  cried,  and  she  looked 
at  him.  Never  before  in  her  life  had  she  played  the 
coquette,  never;  now  in  this  moment  of  unrestrained  feel- 
ing, her  eyes,  provocative  as  Lady  Betty's,  challenged  the 
compliment.    And  she  wondered  at  herself. 

"  You  are  always — the  same  to  me,"  he  said  simply.  And 
then:  "You  are  really  all  of  you  unhurt?  Well,  thank 
God  for  it!  And,  Tom,  my  lad,  you  know,  I  suppose,  how 
you  came  to  be  in  this?  I  am  sure  I  don't;  but  I  thought 
it  was  you  when  I  came  up." 

"I  hope  you  flayed  them!"  Tom  growled,  as  they 
gripped  hands.  "See,  she's  barefoot!  They  hunted  us 
half  a  mile,  I  should  think." 

Sir  Hervey  looked  and  grew  red.    "  I  did!  "  he  answered. 


292  SOPHIA 

"  I  think  they  have  learned  a  lesson.  And  they  have  not 
heard  the  last  of  it !  "  Then  the  post-chaise,  which  he  had 
escorted  to  Beamond's  Farm  on  a  fruitless  search,  came  up, 
and  behind  it  a  couple  of  mounted  servants,  whose  training 
scarce  enabled  them  to  conceal  their  surprise,  when  they 
saw  the  condition  of  their  new  mistress. 

Sir  Hervey  postponed  further  inquiry.  He  hurried  the 
two  ladies  into  the  carriage,  set  Tom  on  a  servant's  horse, 
and  gave  the  word.  A  moment  later  the  party  were  travel- 
ling rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  Hall.  Coke  rode  on  the 
side  next  his  wife,  Tom  by  Lady  Betty.  But  the  noise 
of  the  wheels  made  conversation  difficult,  and  no  one  spoke. 

Presently  Sophia  stole  a  glance  at  Sir  Hervey;  and 
whether  his  country  costume  and  the  flush  of  colour  which 
exercise  had  brought  to  his  cheek  became  him,  or  he  had  a 
better  air,  as  some  men  have,  on  horseback,  it  is  certain 
that  she  wondered  she  had  ever  thought  him  old.  The 
moment  in  which  he  had  appeared,  towering  on  his  horse 
above  the  snarling,  spitting  rabble,  and  driven  them  along 
the  road  as  a  man  drives  sheep,  remained  in  her  memory. 
He  had  wielded,  and  grimly  and  ably  wielded,  the  whip  of 
authority.  He  had  ridden  as  if  horse  and  man  were  one; 
he  had  disdained  weapons,  and  had  flogged  the  hounds  into 
submission  and  flight.  Now  in  repose  his  stronge  figure  in 
its  plain  dress  wore  in  her  eyes  a  new  air  of  distinction. 

She  looked  away  and  looked  again,  wondering  if  it  really 
was  so.  And  slowly  a  vivid  blush  spread  over  her  pale  face. 
The  man  who  rode  beside  the  wheel,  the  man  whose  figure 
she  was  appraising  was — her  husband.  At  the  thought  she 
turned  with  a  guilty  start  to  Lady  Betty;  but  the  poor  girl, 
worn  out  by  excitement  and  the  night's  vigil,  had  fallen 
asleep.  Sophia's  eyes  went  slowly  back  to  her  husband,  and 
the  carriage,  leaving  the  road,  swept  through  the  gates  into 
the  park. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TWO    PORTRAITS 

Tom  rubbed  his  hands  in  cruel  anticipation.  "  They  are 
coming  to  the  Hall  at  four  o'clock,"  he  said.  "  And  I 
wouldn't  be  in  their  shoes  for  a  mug  and  a  crust.  Coke 
will  swinge  them/'  he  continued  with  zest.  "  He  must 
swinge  them,  like  it  or  not!  It'll  be  go,  bag  and  baggage, 
for  most  of  them,  and  some,  I'm  told,  have  been  on  the 
land  time  out  of  mind! " 

He  had  seated  himself  on  the  broad  balustrade  of  the 
terrace,  with  his  back  to  the  park,  and  his  eyes  on  the 
windows  of  the  house.  Sophia,  on  a  stone  bench  not  far 
from  him,  gazed  thoughtfully  over  the  park  as  if  she  found 
refreshment  merely  in  contemplating  the  far  stretch  of 
fern  and  sward,  that,  set  with  huge  oak  trees,  fell  away  into 
half-seen  dells  of  bracken  and  fox-gloves.  Recreated  by 
a  long  night's  rest,  her  youth  set  off,  and  her  freshness 
heightened  by  the  dainty  Tuscan  and  chintz  sacque  she 
had  put  on  that  morning,  she  was  not  to  be  known  for  the 
draggled  miss  who  had  arrived  in  so  grievous  a  plight  the 
day  before.  From  time  to  time  she  recalled  her  gaze  to 
fix  it  dreamily  on  her  left  hand;  now  reviewing  the  fingers, 
bent  or  straight,  now  laying  them  palm  downwards  on  the 
moss-stained  coping.  She  was  so  employed  when  the  mean- 
ing of  her  brother's  last  words  came  tardily  home  to  her  and 
roused  her  from  her  reverie. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  cried,  "  that  he  will  put  them  out 
of  their  farms?  " 

293 


294  SOPHIA 

"I     should     rather    think    he     would!"     said     Tom. 
"Wouldn't  you?    And  serve  them  right,  the  brutes!" 
"  But  what  will  they  do?  " 

"Starve  for  all  I  care!"  Tom  answered  callously;  and 
he  nipped  a  pebble  from  the  balustrade  with  his  forefinger. 
He  was  not  at  his  best  a  soft-hearted  young  gentleman. 
"  And  teach  them  to  know  better! "  he  added  presently. 

Sophia's  face  betrayed  her  trouble.  "  I  don't  think  he 
would  do  that,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"  Coke?  "  Tom  answered.  "  He  won't  have  much  choice, 
my  dear.  For  the  sake  of  your  beaux  yeux  he  will  have  to 
swinge  them,  and  lustily.  To  let  them  off  lightly  would  be 
to  slight  you;  and  'twoulcln't  look  very  well,  and  a  fort- 
night married.  No,  no,  my  girl.  And  that  reminds  me. 
Where  is  he?    And  where  has  he  been  since  yesterday?  " 

Sophia  reddened.     "  He  has  some  business,"  she  said, 
"  which  took  him  away  at  once." 
"  I  don't  think  you  know." 

Sophia  blushed  more  warmly,  but  added  nothing;  and 
fortunately  Tom  caught  sight  of  a  certain  petticoat  disap- 
pearing down  the  steps  at  the  end  of  the  terrace.  It  is  not 
impossible  that  he  had  been  expecting  it,  for  he  rose  on  the 
instant,  muttered  an  unintelligible  word,  and  went  in 
pursuit. 

Sophia  sat  awhile,  pondering  on  what  he  had  said.  It 
was  right  that  the  offenders  of  yesterday  should  be  pun- 
ished; their  conduct  had  been  cruel,  inhuman,  barbarous. 
But  that  her  home-coming  should  mean  to  any  man  the  loss 
of  home,  shocked  her.  Yet  she  thought  it  possible  that  her 
brother  was  right;  that  pride,  if  not  love,  the  wish  to  do  his 
duty  by  her,  if  not  the  desire  to  commend  himself  to  her, 
would  move  Sir  Hervey  to  especial  severity.  What  bride- 
groom indeed,  what  lover  could  afford  to  neglect  so  obvious 
a  flattery?  And  if  in  her  case  Coke  counted  neither  for 
lover  nor  bridegroom,  what  husband? 


TWO   PORTRAITS  295 

She  rose.  She  must  go  at  once  and  seek  him,  intercede 
with  him,  convince  him  that  it  would  not  please  her. 
But  two  steps  taken  she  paused,  her  pride  in  arms.  After 
she  had  changed  her  dress  and  repaired  her  disorder  the 
day  before,  she  had  waited,  expecting  that  he  would  come 
to  her.  But  he  had  not  done  so,  he  had  not  come  near  her; 
at  length  she  had  asked  for  him.  Then  she  had  learned 
with  astonishment,  with  humiliation,  that  immediately 
after  her  arrival  he  had  left  the  house  on  business. 

If  he  could  slight  her  in  that  fashion,  was  there  any 
danger  that  out  of  regard  to  her  he  would  do  injustice  to 
others?  She  laughed  at  the  thought — yet  believed  all  the 
same  that  there  was,  for  men  were  inconsistent.  But  the 
position  made  intercession  difficult,  and  instead  of  calling 
a  servant  and  asking  if  he  had  returned  she  wandered  into 
the  house.  She  remembered  that  the  housekeeper  had 
begged  to  know  when  her  ladyship  would  see  the  drawing- 
rooms;  and  she  sent  for  Mrs.  Stokes. 

That  good  lady  found  her  young  mistress  waiting  for 
her  in  the  larger  of  the  two  rooms.  It  was  scantily  fur- 
nished after  the  fashion  of  the  early  part  of  the  century, 
with  heavy  chairs  and  a  table,  set  at  wide  intervals  on  a 
parquet  floor,  with  a  couple  of  box-like  settees,  and  as  many 
buhl  tables,  the  latter  bought  by  Sir  Hervey's  mother  on 
her  wedding  tour,  and  preserved  as  the  apple  of  her  eye. 
On  either  side  of  the  open  blue-tiled  fire-place  a  round- 
headed  alcove  exhibited  shelves  of  Oriental  china,  and 
on  the  walls  were  half  a  dozen  copies  of  Titians  and 
Raphaels,  large  pictures  at  large  intervals.  All  was  stately, 
proper,  a  little  out  of  fashion,  but  decently  so.  Sophia 
admired,  yawned,  said  a  pleasant  word  to  Mrs.  Stokes  and 
passed  into  the  smaller  room. 

There  she  stood,  suddenly  engrossed.  On  each  side  of 
the  fireplace  hung  a  full-length  portrait.  The  one  on  the 
right  hand,  immediately  before  her,  represented  a  girl  in 


296  SOPHIA 

the  first  bloom  of  youth,  lovely  as  a  rose-hud,  graceful  as  a 
spray  of  jessamine,  with  eyes  that  charmed  and  chained  the 
spectator  by  their  pure  maidenliness.  A  great  painter  in 
his  happiest  vein  had  caught  the  beauty  and  innocence  of 
a  chosen  model;  as  she  smiled  from  the  canvas,  the  dull 
room — for  the  windows  were  curtained — grew  brighter  and 
lighter.  The  visitor,  as  he  entered,  saw  only  that  sweet 
face,  and  saw  it  ever  more  clearly;  as  the  play-goer  sees 
only  the  limited  space  above  the  footlights,  and  sees  that 
grow  larger  the  longer  he  looks. 

It  was  with  an  effort  and  a  sigh  Sophia  turned  to  the 
other  picture;  she  looked  at  it  and  stood  surprised,  un- 
certain, faintly  embarrassed.  She  turned  to  the  house- 
keeper, "  It  is  Sir  Hervey,  is  it  not?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  the  woman  answered.  "  At  the  age 
of  twenty-one.  But  he  is  not  much  changed  to  my  eyes," 
she  added  jealously. 

"  Of  course,  I  did  not  know  him  then,"  Sophia  mur- 
mured apologetically;  and  after  a  long  thoughtful  look 
she  went  back  to  the  other  picture.  "  What  a  very,  very 
lovely  face!  "  she  said.  "  I  did  not  know  that  Sir  Hervey 
had  ever  had  a  sister.    She  is  dead,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  she  is  dead." 

"  It  is  his  sister?  "  with  a  look  at  the  other. 

The  housekeeper  gave  back  the  look  uncomfortably. 
"  No,  my  lady,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  No!  "  Sophia  exclaimed,  raising  her  eyebrows.  "  Then 
who  is  it,  pray?" 

"  Well,  my  lady,  it — it  should  have  been  removed,"  Mrs. 
Stokes  explained,  her  embarrassment  evident.  "  At  one 
time  it  was  to  go  to  Sir  Hervey' s  library,  but  'twas  thought 
it  might  be  particular  there.  And  so  nothing  was  done 
about  it.  Sir  Hervey  wouldn't  let  it  go  anywhere  else.  But 
I  was  afraid  that  your  ladyship  might  not  be  pleased." 

Sophia  stared  coldly  at  her.  "  I  don't  understand,"  she 
said  stiffly.    "  You  have  not  told  me  who  it  is." 


TWO   PORTRAITS  297 

"  It's  Lady  Anne,  my  lady." 

"What  Lady  Anne?" 

"  Lady  Anne  Thoresby.  I  thought,"  the  housekeeper 
added  in  a  faltering  tone,  "  your  ladyship  would  have  heard 
of  her." 

Sophia  looked  at  the  lovely  young  face,  looked  at  the 
other  portrait — of  Sir  Hervey  in  his  gallant  hunting-dress, 
gay,  laughing,  debonair — and  she  understood.  "  She  was 
to  have  married  Sir  Hervey?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"And  she  died?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  two  days  before  their  wedding-day,"  Mrs. 
Stokes  answered,  her  garrulity  beginning  to  get  the  better 
of  her  fears.  "  Sir  Hervey  was  never  the  same  again — that 
is  to  say,  in  old  days,  my  lady,"  she  added  hurriedly.  "  He 
grew  that  silent  it  was  wonderful,  and  no  gentleman  more 
pleasant  before.  He  went  abroad,  and  'tis  said  he  lost 
twenty  thousand  pounds  in  one  night  in  Paris.  And  be- 
fore that  he  had  played  no  more  than  a  gentleman  should." 

Sophia's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"How  did  she  die?"  she  whispered. 

"  Of  the  smallpox,  my  lady.  And  that  is  why  Sir  Hervey 
is  so  particular  about  it." 

"  How  do  you  mean?    Is  he  afraid  of  it?  " 

"Oh,  no,  my  lady,  far  from  it!  He  had  it  years  ago 
himself.  But  wherever  it  is,  he's  for  giving  help.  That's 
why  we  kept  it  from  him  that  'twas  at  Beamond's  Farm, 
thinking  that  as  your  ladyship  was  coming,  he  would  not 
wish  to  be  in  the  way  of  it.  But  he  was  wonderful  angry 
when  he  learned  about  it,  and  went  off  as  soon  as  news 
came  from  his  reverence;  who  would  have  sent  sooner,  but 
he  was  took  ill  yesterday.  I  can  pretty  well  guess  what  Sir 
Hervey's  gone  about,"  she  added  sagaciously. 

"What?"  Sophia  asked. 

Mrs.  Stokes  hesitated,  but  decided  to  speak. 


298  SOPHIA 

"  Well,  it  happened  once  before,  my  lady,"  she  said, 
"  that  they  could  get  no  one  to  help  bury;  and  Sir  Hervey 
went  and  set  the  example.  You  may  be  sure  there  were 
plenty  then,  as  had  had  it,  and  had  no  cause  to  fear,  ready 
to  come  f orward  to  do  the  work.  And  I've  not  much  doubt, 
my  lady,  it's  for  that  he's  gone  this  time.  He'd  stay  away 
a  night  at  the  keeper's  cottage,  I  expect,"  Mrs.  Stokes  con- 
tinued, nodding  her  head  sagely,  "  just  to  see  to  his  clothes 
being  destroyed  and  the  like.  For  there's  no  one  more 
careful  to  carry  no  risks,  I  will  say  that  for  his  honour." 

Sophia  stared. 

"  But  do  you  mean,"  she  cried,  her  heart  beating 
strangely,  "  that  Sir  Hervey  would  do  the  work  with  his 
own  hands?  " 

"  Well,  it's  what  he  did  once,  I  know,  my  lady,"  the 
housekeeper  answered  apologetically.  "  It  was  not  very 
becoming,  to  be  sure,  but  he  was  not  the  less  thought  of 
about  here,  I  assure  your  ladyship.  You  see,  my  lady,  'tis 
in  the  depth  of  the  country,  and  the  land  is  his  own,  and 
it's  not  as  if  it  was  in  London.  Where  I  know  things  are 
very  different,"  Mrs.  Stokes  continued  with  pride,  "  for  I 
have  been  there  myself  with  the  family.  But  about  here 
I'm  sure  he  was  not  the  less  considered,  begging  your  lady- 
ship's pardon." 

"  I  can  believe  it,"  Sophia  said,  in  a  voice  suspiciously 
quiet  and  even.  And  then,  "  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Stokes,  you 
can  leave  me  now,"  she  continued.  "  I  shall  sit  here  a 
little." 

But  when  Mrs.  Stokes,  feeling  herself  a  trifle  snubbed, 
had  withdrawn  and  closed  the  door  of  the  outer  room  upon 
her,  Sophia's  eyes  grew  moist  with  tears,  and  the  nosegay 
that  filled  the  open  bodice  of  her  sacque  rose  and  fell 
strangely.  In  that  age  philanthropy  was  not  a  fashion. 
Pope  indeed  had  painted  the  Man  of  Ross,  and  there  was 
a  Charitable  Corporation,  lately  in  difficulties,  and  there 


TWO   PORTRAITS  299 

was  a  Society  of  the  Sons  of  the  Clergy,  and  there  were 
other  societies  of  a  like  kind;  and  in  the  country  infirmaries 
were  beginning  to  be  founded  on  the  patterns  of  Win- 
chester and  Shrewsbury,  and  to  subscribe  to  such  objects 
after  dining  well  and  drinking  deeply,  was  already,  under 
the  Walpoles  and  the  Pelhams,  a  part  of  a  fine  gentleman's 
life.  But  for  a  man  of  condition  to  play  the  Borromeo — to 
stoop  to  give  practical  help  and  run  risks  among  the  vulgar, 
was  still  enough  to  earn  for  him  a  character  as  eccentric  as 
that  of  the  famous  nobleman  who  had  seen  more  kings  and 
more  postilions  than  any  of  his  contemporaries. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  world,  but  not  in  Sophia's,  or  why  this 
dimness  of  vision,  as  she  gazed  at  Sir  Hervey's  picture? 
Why  the  unrest  of  the  bodice  that  threatened  to  find  vent 
in  sobs?  Why  the  sudden  rush  of  self-reproach?  More 
sharply  than  any  kindness  shown  to  her  in  the  long  con- 
sistent course  of  his  dealings  with  her,  more  keenly  than 
his  forethought  for  her  brother,  this  stabbed  her.  This 
was  the  man  she  had  flouted,  the  man  whose  generous, 
whose  unselfish  offer  she  had  accepted  to  save  her  reputa- 
tion; but  whose  love  she  had  deemed  a  floor-clout,  not 
worthy  the  picking  up!  Was  it  wonderful  that  cynical, 
taciturn,  almost  dull  as  the  world  thought  him,  he  was  not 
the  less  considered  here? 

At  twenty-one  he  had  been  handsome,  with  wit  and 
laughter  and  the  gay  insouciance  of  youth  written  on  his 
face.  Time,  the  lapse  of  thirteen  years,  had  robbed  his 
features  of  their  bloom,  his  lips  of  their  easy  curve,  his  eyes 
of  their  sparkle.  But  something,  surely,  time  had  given  in 
return.  Something,  Sophia  could  not  say  what.  She 
could  not  remember;  she  could  only  recall  a  smile,  kindly, 
long-suffering,  a  little  quizzical,  with  which  he  had  some- 
times met  her  eyes.  That  she  could  recall;  and  as  she  did 
so,  before  his  portrait  in  the  stillness  of  this  long-aban- 
doned room,  with  the  dead  air  of  old  pot-pourris  in  her 


300  SOPHIA 

nostrils,  she  grew  frightened.  What  was  it  she  had  thrown 
away?  And  how  would  it  fare  with  her  if  she  could  not 
recover  it? 

Twisting  one  hand  in  the  other,  she  turned  to  the  second 
portrait,  and  looked,  and  looked.  At  length  she  glanced 
round  with  a  guilty  air,  perceived  a  tall,  narrow  mirror  that 
stood  framed  between  the  windows,  and  went  towards  it. 
Furtively  assuring  herself  that  she  was  not  watched  from 
the  terrace,  she  viewed  herself  in  it. 

She  saw  a  pale  grave  face,  barely  redeemed  from  plain- 
ness by  eloquent  eyes  and  a  wealth  of  hair;  a  face  that 
looked  sombrely  into  hers,  and  grew  graver  and  more 
sombre  as  she  looked.  "  He  is  more  like  his  old  self  than  I 
am  like  her,"  she  thought.  "  Why  did  he  choose  me!  Why 
did  he  not  choose  Lady  Betty?  She  is  such  another  now 
as  Lady  Anne  was  then!  " 

She  was  still  peering  at  herself  when  she  heard  his  voice 
in  the  hall,  and  started  guiltily.  She  would  not  for  the 
world  he  caught  her  in  that  room,  and  she  darted  to  the 
door,  dragged  it  open,  and  was  half-way  across  the  long 
drawing-room  when  he  entered.  She  felt  that  her  face 
was  on  fire,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"  A  thousand  pardons  that  I  was  not  with  you  before," 
he  cried  pleasantly.  "  I'd  business,  and — no  I  must  not 
touch  you,  my  dear.  I  have  been  nearer  than  was  pleas- 
ant to  one  of  your  friends  with  the  smallpox." 

"  You  have  run — no  risk,  I  hope  ?  "  she  asked  faintly. 

"  Not  a  whit !  "  he  answered,  striking  his  boot  with  his 
whip  and  looking  round  the  room  as  if  he  seldom  entered 
it.  "  I've  had  it,  you  know.  I've  also  had  the  whole  story 
of  your  adventures  from  Betty,  whom  I  met  as  I  was 
going  to  my  room." 

She  was  agitated;  he  was  at  his  ease.  "  I  am  sorry  that 
we  managed  so  clumsily,"  she  murmured. 

"  So  bravely,  I  think,"  he  answered  lightly;  and  then, 


TWO   PORTRAITS  301 

looking  round,  "  This  is  your  part  of  the  house,  you  know, 
Sophia.    You  must  make  what  changes  you  please  here." 

"  Thank  you/'  she  said.    "  You  are  very  good." 

"  These  rooms  have  been  little  used  since  my  mother's 
death,"  he  continued,  again  surveying  them.  "  So  I  have 
no  doubt  they  want  refurnishing.  You  must  talk  it  over 
with  Lady  Betty.  And  that  reminds  me,  I  saw  your  brother 
slipping  away  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  he  had  something — 
the  air  of  following  her."  And  Sir  Hervey  laughed  and  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  stiff -backed  chairs.  "  For  my  part,  I 
think  he  ought  to  be  told,"  he  continued,  tapping  the  toe 
of  his  boot  with  his  whip. 

Sophia  smiled  faintly.  "You  think  he  is  taken  with 
her?  " 

"  "Who  would  not  be  ?  "  Sir  Hervey  answered  bluntly. 
"  Maid  or  mistress,  he'll  be  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her 
before  twenty-four  hours  are  out! " 

Sophia  sat  down.  "  It's  her  fancy  that  he  should  not 
know,"  she  said  languidly.  "  Of  course,  if  you  wish  it  I 
will  tell  him." 

'  No,  no,  child,  have  it  your  own  way,"  he  answered  with 
good  humour.  "  I  suppose  she  is  prepared  to  pay  for  her 
frolic." 

"  Well— I  think  she  likes  him." 

"  And  'twould  do  very  well  on  both  sides — in  a  year  or 
two! " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

Sir  Hervey  rose.  "  Then  let  be,"  he  said.  And  he  wan- 
dered across  the  room,  taking  up  things  and  setting  them 
down  again  as  if  he  did  not  think  it  quite  polite  to  leave 
her,  yet  had  nothing  more  to  say.  Sophia  watched  him 
with  growing  soreness.  Was  it  fancy,  or  was  it  the  fact 
that  she  had  never  seen  him  so  cold,  so  indifferent,  so  little 
concerned  for  her,  so  well  satisfied  with  himself  as  now?  A 
change,  so  subtle  she  could  not  define  it,  had  come  over 
him.    Or  was  it  that  a  change  had  come  over  her? 


302  SOPHIA  ^ 

She  wondered,  and  at  length  plunged  desperately  into 
speech.  "  Is  it  true,"  she  asked,  "  that  the  people  who 
treated  us  so  ill  yesterday  are  coming  to  see  you  to-day?" 

"  Those  of  them  who  are  householders  are  coming,"  he 
answered  soberly.  "  At  four  o'clock.  But  I  do  not  wish  you 
to  see  them." 

"  You  will  not  he — too  severe  with  them  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  be  more  severe,  I  hope,  than  the  occasion 
reauires ,"  he  answered. 

But  his  tone  was  hard,  and  she  felt  that  what  she  had 
heard  was  true.  "  Will  you  grant  me  a  favour?"  she 
blurted  out,  her  voice  trembling  a  little. 

"  I  would  like  to  grant  you  many,"  he  answered,  smiling 
at  her. 

"  It's  only  that  you  will  not  send  them  away,"  she  said. 

"  Send  them  away?  " 

"  I  mean,  send  them  off  their  farms,"  she  explained  hur- 
riedly. "  I  was  told — Tom  told  me  that  you  were  going  to 
do  so;  and  that  some  had  held  the  land  for  generations,  and 
would  be  heartbroken  as  well  as  ruined." 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  his  silence  confirmed 
her  in  her  fears.  "  I  don't  say  that  they  have  not  deserved 
to  be  punished,"  she  urged.  "  But — but  I  should  not  like 
my  coming  here  to  be  remembered  by  this.  And  it  seems 
out  of  proportion  to  the  crime,  since  they  did  me  no  harm." 

"  Whatever  they  intended?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely.  "  What  led  you  to  think," 
he  said,  "  that  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  punish  them  in  that 
way?" 

"  Well,  Tom  told  me,"  she  explained  in  growing  con- 
fusion, "  that  you  might  do  it  to — that  you  might  think 
it  would  please  me.  He  said  that  any  one  in  your  place — 
I  mean " 

"  Any  one  newly  married?  " 


TWO   PORTRAITS  303 

Sophia's  face  flamed.  "  I  suppose  so,"  she  murmured 
"—would  do  it." 

"To  please  his  bride?  And  you  agreed  with  him, 
Sophia?    You  thought  it  was  probable?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  possible,"  she  said. 

He  walked  across  the  room,  came  back,  and  stood  before 
her.  He  looked  down  at  her.  "  My  dear,"  he  said  soberly 
— but  she  winced  under  the  altered  tone  of  his  voice — "  you 
will  learn  to  know  me  better  in  a  little  while.  Let  me  tell 
you  at  once  that  the  purpose  you  have  mentioned  never 
entered  my  head,  and  that  I  am,  I  hope,  incapable  of  it. 
There  are  people  who  might  entertain  it,  and  might  carry 
it  out  to  please  a  mistress  or  gratify  a  whim.  There  are,  I 
know.  But  I  am  not  one  of  that  kind.,  I  am  too  old  to 
misuse  power  to  please  a  woman,  even  the  woman  I  have 
chosen.  Nor,"  he  continued,  stopping  her  as  she  tried  to 
speak,  "  is  that  all.  In  the  management  of  an  estate  we 
do  not  act  so  hurriedly  as  you  appear  to  think,  my  dear. 
Old  tenants,  like  old  wine,  are  the  best,  and,  where  it  is 
possible,  we  keep  them.  I  have  sent,  it  is  true,  for  those 
who  were  guilty  yesterday,  and  I  shall  see  that  they  are 
made  to  smart  for  it.  But  not  to  the  extent  of  loss  of  home 
and  livelihood." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  muttered. 

"  There  is  no  need,  child,"  he  answered.  "  And  while 
we  are  on  this,  I  may  as  well  deal  with  another  matter. 
I  found  your  note  and  the  jewel  case  on  my  table,  and 
as  you  wish,  so  it  shall  be.  I  might  prefer — indeed,  I 
should  prefer,"  he  continued  prosaically,  "  to  see  my  wife 
properly  equipped  when  she  goes  into  the  world.  But 
that's  a  small  matter.  Lady  Coke  will  always  be  Lady 
Coke,  and  if  you  will  feel  more  free  and  more  happy 
without  them " 

"  I  shall,"  she  muttered  hurriedly,  "  if  you  please." 

"  So  be  it.     They  shall  be  returned  to  my  goldsmith's 


304  SOPHIA 

as  soon  as  a  safe  conveyance  can  be  found.  I  wish,  my 
dear,"  he  added  good-naturedly,  "  I  could  rid  you  of  all 
troubles  as  easily." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  muttered,  and  could 
.have  shrunk  into  the  floor  with  shame.  For  on  a  sudden 
k  she  saw  herself  a  horrid  creature,  imposing  all,  taking  noth- 
ing, casting  all  the  burden  and  all  the  stress,  and  all  the 
inconvenience  of  their  strange  relations  on  him.  In  town 
and  on  the  road  she  had  fancied  that  there  was  something 
fine,  something  of  the  nature  of  abnegation  and  dignity  in 
the  return  of  the  jewels,  and  in  her  determination  that  she 
would  not  go  decked  in  them.  But  the  simplicity  with 
which  he  had  accepted  her  whim  and  waived  his  own 
wishes,  tore  away  the  veil  of  self-deception,  and  showed 
Sophia  the  childishness  of  her  conduct.  She  would  not 
wear  his  jewels;  but  his  name  and  his  title,  his  freedom  and 
his  home  she  had  not  scrupled  to  take  from  him  with  scarce 
a  word  of  gratitude,  with  scarce  one  thought  for  him! 

The  very  distress  she  was  feeling  gave  her,  she  knew, 
a  sullen  air,  and  must  set  her  in  a  worse  light  than  ever. 
Yet  she  was  tongue-tied.  He  yielded  freely,  handsomely, 
generously;  and  that  bare,  that  cold  "  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you  "  was  all  she  could  force  her  tongue  to  utter.  She 
was  beginning  to  feel  that  she  was  growing  afraid  of  him; 
and  then  he  spoke. 

"  There  is  one  other  matter,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  to  name. 
It  touches  Mrs.  Stokes.  She  has  been  here  a  number  of 
years,  and  I  dare  say  like  this  room,  smacks  a  little  of  good 
Queen  Anne.  If  you  think  it  necessary  to  discharge 
her " 

Sophia  started. 
-     "I?"  she  said. 

"  To  be  sure.  I  should  at  the  worse  pension  her.  But 
she  has  served  us  faithfully,  I  believe — beginning,  I  think," 
Sir  Hervey  continued  with  a  slight  touch  of  constraint, 


S^SvS&slfa^- "    s' 


0^ 


\^1f 


"WHY,    BETTY,"    SOPHIA   CRIED   IN   ASTONISHMENT,    "WHAT   IS   IT?" 


TWO   PORTRAITS  305 

"  by  whipping  me  when  I  needed  it;  and  she  would  be  dis- 
tressed, I  fear,  if  she  had  to  go.  If  you  could  contrive  to 
do  with  her  for  a  while,  therefore,  I  should  be  much  obliged 
to  you." 

Sophia  had  risen  and  moved  a  little  way  from  him. 

"  Did  you  think  I  should  discharge  her? "  she  said, 
without  turning  her  head. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  I  did  not  know,  my  dear.  Young 
housekeepers  " 

"  Why  did  you  think  I  should  discharge  her?  "  she  cried, 
interrupting  him  sharply;  and  then,  "  Pray  forgive  me," 
she  continued  hurriedly,  yet  stiffly,  "  I — you  hurt  me  a 
little  in  what  you  said  of — the  tenants.  I  only  ask  you  to 
believe  that  I  am  as  incapable  of  dismissing  an  old  servant 
for  a  trifle  as  you  are  of  behaving  unjustly  to  your  tenants!  " 

He  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  emotion. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  Then  we  understand  one  an- 
other. Of  course,  I  don't  wish  you  to  feel  this  an  obliga- 
tion.   Mrs.  Stokes  is  growing  old " 

"  It  is  no  obligation,"  she  said  coldly.  And  then,  "  I 
think  it  will  be  more  pleasant  on  the  terrace,"  she  con- 
tinued; and  she  moved  towards  the  door. 

He  held  it  open  that  she  might  pass  through;  and  he 
followed  her  into  the  hall.  He  little  dreamt  that,  as  she 
walked  before  him,  she  was  wondering,  almost  with  terror, 
whether  he  would  go  out  with  her  or  leave  her;  whether 
this  was  all  she  was  to  see  of  him,  day  by  day.  The  doubt 
was  not  solved;  for  they  were  interrupted.  As  they  entered 
the  shady  hall  by  one  door  Lady  Betty  darted  into  it  from 
the  terrace,  her  face  scarlet,  her  hat  crushed,  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  rage.  They  were  so  near  her  she  could  not 
escape  them;  nor  could  she  hide  her  disorder.  "  Why, 
Betty,"  Sophia  cried  in  astonishment,  "  what  is  it  ?  What 
in  the  world  is  the  matter?  " 
20 


306  SOPHIA 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  Betty  cried,  almost  weeping.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  You — your  brother 
has  insulted  me!  He  has  held  me  and  kissed  me  against 
my  will!  And  he  laughed  at  me!  He  laughed  at  me!  Oh, 
I  could  kill  him!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WHO    PLATS,    PAYS 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  flicker  of  skirts  with  which 
Lady  Betty  ran  down  the  steps  when  she  started  for  her 
airing,  still  more  a  certain  toss  of  the  head  that  was  its 
perfect  complement,  gave  her  mischievous  soul  huge  de- 
light; for  she  had  watched  a  French  maid,  and  knew  them 
to  be  pure  nature,  and  the  very  quintessence  of  the  singing 
chambermaid's  art.  It  was  not  impossible  that  as  she 
executed  them  she  had  a  person  in  her  eye  and  meant  him 
to  profit  by  them;  for  by:and-by  she  repeated  the  perform- 
ance at  a  point  where  two  paths  diverged,  and  where  it  put 
the  fitting  close  to  a  very  pretty  pause  of  indecision.  Tom 
was  so  hard  on  her  heels  that  ordinary  ears  must  have  de- 
tected his  tread;  but  that  my  lady  heard  nothing  was  proved 
by  the  fact  that  she  chose  the  more  retired  track  and  tripped 
along  it,  humming  and  darting  from  flower  to  flower  like 
some  dainty  insect  let  loose  among  the  bracken. 

She  plucked  at  will,  and  buried  her  shapely  little  nose 
in  the  blossoms;  she  went  on,  she  stopped,  she  went  on 
again,  and  Tom  let  her  go;  until  the  path,  after  winding 
round  a  low  spreading  oak  that  closed  the  view  from  the 
house,  began  to  descend  into  a  sunny  dell  where  it  ran,  a 
green  ribbon  of  sward,  through  waist-high  fern,  leapt  the 
brook  by  a  single  plank,  and  scaled  the  steeper  side  by 
tiny  zig-zags. 

On  the  hither  side  of  this  summer  hollow,  sleepy  with 
the  warm  hum  of  bees  and  scent  of  thyme,  Tom  over- 

307 


308  SOPHIA 

took  her,  and  never  sure  was  any  one  so  surprised  and 
overwhelmed  as  this  poor  maid. 

"  La,  sir,  I  declare  you  frightened  my  heart  into  my 
mouth,"  she  cried,  pressing  a  white  hand  to  her  bodice 
and  looking  timidly  at  him  from  the  shelter  of  her  straw 
hat.  "  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  with  a  curtsey. 
"  I  would  not  have  come  here,  if  I'd  known,  for  the  world." 

"No,  child?" 

"  No,  sir,  indeed  I  would  not!  " 

"  And  why  not?  "  Tom  asked  pertinently.  "  Why  should 
you  not  come  here?" 

"Why?"  she  retorted,  properly  scandalised.  "What! 
Come  where  the  family  walk?  I  should  hope  I  know  my 
place  better  than  that,  sir.    And  to  behave  myself  in  it." 

"  Very  prettily,  I  am  sure,"  Tom  declared,  with  a  bold 
stare  of  admiration. 

"  As  becomes  me,  sir,  I  hope,"  Betty  answered  demurely, 
and  to  show  that  the  stare  had  no  effect  upon  her,  primly 
turned  her  head  away. 

"  Though  you  were  brought  up  with  your  mistress?  Or 
was  it  with  your  late  mistress?"  Tom  asked  slily.  "Or 
have  you  forgotten  which  it  was,  Betty?  " 

"  I  hope  I've  never  forgotten  any  one  who  was  kind  to 
me,"  she  whispered,  her  head  drooping  so  that  he  could  not 
see  her  face.  "  There's  not  many  think  of  a  poor  girl  in 
service;  though  I  come  of  some  that  ha'  seen  better  days." 

"  Indeed,  Betty.    Is  that  so?  '* 

"  So  I've  heard,  sir." 

"  Well,  will  you  count  me  among  your  friends,  Betty?  " 

"  La,  no,  sir! "  with  vivacity,  and  she  shot  him  with  an 
arch  glance.  "  I  should  think  not  indeed!  I  should  like 
to  know  why,  sir?"  and  she  tossed  her  head  disdainfully. 
"  But  there,  I've  talked  too  long.  I'm  sure  her  ladyship 
would  not  like  it,  and  asking  your  pardon,  sir,  I'll  go  on." 

"  But  I'm  coming  your  way." 


WHO   PLAYS,  PATS  .      309 

"  No,  sir." 

"  But  I  am,"  Tom  persisted.  "  Why  shouldn't  I?  You 
are  not  afraid  of  me,  child?  You  were  not  afraid  of  me 
in  the  dark  on  the  hill,  when  we  sat  on  the  tree  together, 
and  you  wore  my  coat." 

Betty  sighed.  "  'Twas  different  then,  sir,"  she  mur- 
mured, hanging  her  head,  and  tracing  a  pattern  on  the 
sward  with  the  point  of  her  toe. 

«  why?  " 

"  I'd  no  choice,  sir." 

"  Then  you  would  choose  to  leave  me,  would  you?  " 

"  And  I  didn't  know  that  you  belonged  to  the  family," 
she  continued,  evading  the  question,  "  or  I  should  not  have 
made  so  free,  sir.  And  besides,  asking  your  pardon,  you 
told  me  that  you  had  seen  enough  of  women  to  last  you 
your  life,  sir.    You  know  you  did." 

"Oh,  d n!"  Tom  cried.       The  reminder  was  not 

welcome. 

Betty  recoiled  virtuously.  "  There,  sir,"  she  cried, 
"now  I  know  what  you  think  of  me!  If  I  were  a  lady, 
you'd  not  have  said  that  to  me,  I'll  be  bound.  Swearing, 
indeed?  For  shame,  sir!  But  I'm  for  home,  and  none  too 
soon! " 

"  No,  no!  "  Tom  cried.    "  Don't  be  silly!  " 

"  It's  yes,  yes,  sir,  by  your  leave,"  she  retorted.  "  I'm 
none  such  a  fool  as  you'd  make  me.  That  shows  me  what 
you  think  of  me." 

And  turning  with  an  offended  air,  she  began  to  retrace 
her  steps.  Tom  called  to  her,  but  fruitlessly.  She  did 
not  answer  nor  pause.  He  had  to  follow  her,  feeling  small 
and  smaller.  A  little  farther,  and  they  would  be  again 
within  sight  of  the  house. 

The  track  was  narrow,  the  fern  on  each  side  grew  waist 
high;  he  could  not  intercept  her  without  actual  violence. 
At  length,  "  See  here,  child,"  he  said  humbly,  "  if  you'll 


310  SOPHIA 

turn  and  chat  a  bit,  I'll  persuade  you  it  was  not  meant.  I'll 
treat  you  every  bit  as  if  you  were  a  lady.    I  swear  I  will!  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  cried.  "  I  don't  know  that  I  can 
trust  you."    But  she  went  more  slowly. 

"  'Pon  honour  I  will,"  he  protested.    "  I  swear  I  will!  " 

She  stopped  at  that,  and  turned  to  him.  "  You  will?  " 
she  said  doubtfully.  "You  really  will?  Then  will  you 
please "  with  a  charming  shyness,  "  pick  me  a  nose- 
gay to  put  in  my  tucker,  as  my  lady's  beaux  used  to  do? 
I  should  like  to  feel  like  a  lady  for  once,"  she  continued 
eagerly.  "  'Twould  be  such  a  frolic  as  you  gentlefolk  have, 
sir,  when  you  pretend  to  be  poor  milk-maids  and  make 
syllabub,  and  will  not  have  a  bandbox  or  a  hoop-petticoat 
near  you! " 

"  Your  ladyship  shall  have  a  nosegay,"  Tom  answered 
gaily.  "  But  I  must  first  see  the  colour  of  your  eyes  that 
I  may  match  them." 

She  clapped  her  hands  in  a  rapture.  "  Oh,  how  you 
act,  to  be  sure!"  she  cried.  "  'Tis  too  charming.  And 
for  my  eyes,  sir,  it's  no  more  than  matching  wools."  And 
she  looked  at  him  shyly,  dropping  a  curtsey  the  while. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it?  "  he  retorted.  "  Matching  wools  indeed. 
Wool  does  not  change,  nor  shift  its  hues.  Nor  glance, 
nor  sparkle,  nor  ripple  like  water  running  now  on  the 
deeps,  now  on  the  shallows.  Nor  mirror  the  clouds,  nor 
dance  like  wheat  in  the  sunshine.  Nor  melt  like  summer," 
he  continued  rapidly,  "  nor  freeze  like  the  Arctic.  Nor  say 
a  thousand  things  in  a  thousand  seconds." 

"  La!  And  do  my  eyes  do  all  that?  "  Betty  cried,  open- 
ing them  very  wide  in  her  innocent  astonishment.  "  What 
a  thing  it  is,  to  be  sure,  to  be  a  lady.  I  declare,  sir,  you  are 
quite  out  of  breath  with  the  fine  things  you've  said.  All 
the  same  they  are  blue  in  the  main,  and  I'll  have  forget-me- 
nots,  if  you  please,  sir.  There's  plenty  in  the  brook,  and 
while  your  honour  fetches  them  I'll  sit  here  and  do  noth- 
ing, like  the  gentlefolks." 


•   .  ■CM}'     u ."  iM+fth  .^m 


1 


DO  YOU  SIT,  AND  I'LL  MAKE  YOU  A  POSY" 


WHO   PLATS,   PAYS  311 

The  brook  ran  a  hundred  paces  below  them,  and  the  sun 
was  hot  in  the  dell,  but  Tom  had  no  fair  excuse.  He  ran 
clown  with  a  good  grace,  and  in  five  minutes  was  back 
again,  his  hands  full  of  tiny  blossoms. 

"  They're  like  a  bit  of  the  sky,"  said  Betty,  as  he  pinned 
them  in  her  bodice. 

"  Then  they  are  like  your  eyes,  sweet/'  he  answered,  and 
he  stooped  to  pay  himself  for  the  compliment  with  a  kiss. 

But  Betty  slipped  from  him  without  betraying,  save  by 
a  sudden  blush,  that  she  understood. 

"  Now,  it's  my  turn,"  she  cried  gaily.  "  Do  you  sit,  and 
I'll  make  you  a  posy!  "  And  humming  an  air  she  floated 
through  the  fern  to  a  tree  of  wild  cherry  that  hung  low 
boughs  to  meet  the  fern  and  fox-gloves.  She  began  to 
pluck  the  blossom  while  Tom  watched  her  and  told  him- 
self that  never  was  sweeter  idyll  than  this,  nor  a  maid  more 
entrancingly  fair,  nor  eyes  more  blue,  nor  lips  more  invit- 
ing, nor  manners  more  daintily  sweet  and  naive.  He  sighed 
prodigiously,  for  he  swore  that  not  for  the  world  would  he 
hurt  her,  though  it  was  pretty  plain  how  it  would  go  if  he 
chose,  and  he  knew  that 

Pride  lures  the  little  warbler  from  the  skies ! 
The  light-enamoured  bird  eluded  dies. 

And — and  then,  while  his  thoughts  were  full  of  this,  he 
saw  her  coming  back,  her  arms  full  of  blossom. 

"Lord,  child!"  he  cried,  "you've  plucked  enough  for 
a  Jack  o'  the  Green." 

She  shot  an  arch  glance  at  him.  "  It  is  for  my  Jack  o' 
the  Green,"  she  murmured. 

He  ogled  her  and  she  blushed.  But  he  had  his  misgiv- 
ings when  he  saw  that  she  was  making  a  nosegay  as  big  as 
his  head.  Presently  it  was  done,  and  she  found  a  pin  and 
advanced  upon  him. 


312  SOPHIA 

"  But  you're  not  going  to  put  that  on  me!  "  he  cried.  He 
had  a  boy's  horror  of  the  ridiculous. 

She  stopped,  offended.  "  Oh/'  she  said,  "  if  you  don't 
wish  it?  "  and  with  lips  pouting  and  tears  ill-repressed,  she 
turned  away. 

He  sprang  up.  "  My  dear  child,  I  do  wish  it!  "  he  cried. 
"Ton  honour  I  do!    But  it's — it's  immense." 

She  did  not  answer.  Already  she  was  some  way  up 
the  slope.  He  ran  after  her,  and  told  her  he  would  wear 
it,  begged  her  to  pin  it  for  him. 

She  stood  looking  at  him  languidly. 

"  Are  you  sure?  "  she  said. 

He  vowed  he  was  by  all  his  gods,  and  still  pouting  she 
pinned  the  flowers  to  the  breast  of  his  coat.  Now,  if  ever, 
he  thought  was  his  opportunity.  Alas,  the  nosegay  was 
so  large,  the  cherry  twigs  of  which  it  was  composed  were 
so  stiff  and  sharp,  he  might  as  well  have  kissed  her  over  a 
hedge !  It  was  provoking  in  the  last  degree,  and  so  were  her 
smiling  lips.  And  yet — he  could  not  be  angry  with  her. 
The  very  artlessness  with  which  she  had  made  up  this  huge 
cabbage  and  fixed  it  on  him  was  one  charm  the  more. 

"  There,"  she  said,  stepping  back  and  viewing  him  with 
innocent  satisfaction,  "  I'm  sure  a  real  lady  could  not  have 
managed  that  better.  It  does  not  prick  your  chin,  does 
it?" 

"  No,  child." 

"  And  it  isn't  in  your  way?  Of  course,  if  it  is  in  your 
way,  sir?  " 

"No,  no!" 

"  That's  well.  I'm  so  glad."  And  with  a  final  nod  of 
approval — with  that,  and  no  more — Betty  turned,  actually 
turned,  and  began  to  walk  back  towards  the  Hall. 

Tom  stood,  looking  after  her  in  astonishment.  "  But 
you  are  not  going?  "  he  cried. 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,"  she  answered,  looking  back  and  smil- 
ing, "  my  lady'll  be  waiting  for  me." 


WHO   PLAYS,  PAYS  313 

"What?    This  minute?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  and  indeed,  sir,  yes,  it  is  late  already,"  she 
said.  "  But  you  can  come  with  me  a  little  way,  if  you  like," 
she  added  modestly.    And  she  looked  back  at  him. 

He  was  angry.  He  had  even  a  suspicion,  a  small,  but 
growing  suspicion,  that  she  was  amusing  herself  with  him! 
But  he  could  not  withstand  her  glance;  and  as  she  turned 
for  the  last  time,  he  made  after  her.  He  overtook  her  in  a 
few  strides,  and  fell  in  beside  her.  But  he  sulked.  His 
vanity  was  touched,  and  willing  to  show  her  that  he  was 
offended,  he  maintained  a  cold  silence. 

On  a  sudden  he  caught  the  tail  of  her  eye  fixed  on  him, 
saw  that  she  was  shaking  with  secret  laughter;  and  felt  his 
cheeks  begin  to  burn.  The  conviction  that  the  little  hussy 
was  making  fun  of  him,  that  she  had  dared  to  put  this 
great  cabbage  upon  him  for  a  purpose,  burst  on  him  in  a 
flash.  It  pricked  his  vanity  to  the  very  quick.  His  heart 
burned  as  well  as  his  face;  but  if  she  thought  to  have  all 
the  laughing  on  her  side  he  would  teach  her  better!  He 
lagged  a  step  or  two  behind,  and  stealthily  tore  off  the  hate- 
ful nosegay.  The  next  moment  his  hot  breath  was  on  her 
neck,  his  arm  was  round  her;  and  despite  her  scream  of 
rage,  despite  her  frantic,  furious  attempt  to  push  him  away, 
he  held  her  to  him  while  he  kissed  her  twice. 

"  There,  my  girl,"  he  cried,  as  he  released  her  with  a 
laugh  of  triumph.    "  That's  for  making  fun  of  me." 

For  answer  she  struck  him  a  sounding  slap  on  the  cheek; 
and  as  he  recoiled,  surprised  by  her  rage,  she  dealt  him 
another  on  his  ear. 

Tom's  head  rung.  "  You  cat!  "  he  cried.  "  I've  a  good 
mind  to  take  another!  And  I  will  if  you  don't  behave 
yourself! " 

But  the  little  madcap's  face  of  scarlet  fury,  her  eyes 
blazing  with  passion,  daunted  him.  "How  dare  you?" 
she  hissed.     "How  dare  you  touch  me?     You  creature! 


314  HOI'HIA 

You "    And  then,  even  in  the  same  breath  and  while 

he  stared,  she  turned  and  was  gone,  leaving  the  sentence 
unfinished;  and  he  watched  her  flee  across  the  sward,  a 
tumultuous  raging  little  figure,  with  hanging  hat,  and  hair 
half  down,  and  ribbons  that  flew  out  and  spoke  her  passion. 

Tom  was  so  taken  by  surprise  he  did  not  attempt  to 
follow,  much  less  to  detain  her.  His  sister's  maid  to  take 
a  kiss  so?  A  waiting-woman?  A  chit  of  a  servant?  And 
after  she  had  played  for  it,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  aye,  and 
earned  it  and  over-earned  it  by  her  impudent  trick  and  her 
confounded  laughter.  He  had  never  been  so  astonished  in 
his  life.  The  world  was  near  its  end,  indeed,  if  there  was 
to  be  this  bother  about  a  kiss.  Why,  his  head  hummed,  and 
his  cheek  would  show  the  mark  for  an  hour  to  come.  Nor 
was  that  the  worst.  If  she  went  to  the  house  in  that  state 
and  published  the  thing,  he  would  have  an  awkward  five 
minutes  with  his  sister.  Hang  the  prude!  And  yet  what 
a  charming  little  vixen  it  was. 

He  stood  awhile  in  the  sunshine,  boring  the  turf  with 
his  heel,  uncertain  what  to  do.  At  length,  feeling  that  any- 
thing was  better  than  sneaking  there,  like  a  boy  who  had 
played  truant  and  feared  to  go  home,  he  started  for  the 
Hall.  He  would  not  allow  that  he  was  afraid,  but  as  he 
approached  the  terrace  he  had  an  uneasy  feeling;  first  of  the 
house's  many  windows,  and  then  of  an  unnatural  silence 
that  prevailed  about  it,  as  if  something  had  happened  or 
was  preparing.  To  prove  his  independence  he  whistled,  but 
he  whistled  flat,  and  stopped. 

Outside  he  met  no  one,  and  he  plucked  up  a  spirit.  After 
all  the  girl  would  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  tell.  And  what 
was  there  to  tell?  A  kiss?  What  was  a  kiss?  But  the 
moment  he  was  out  of  the  glare  and  over  the  threshold  of 
the  Hall,  he  knew  that  she  had  told.  For  there  in  the  cool 
shadow  stood  Sophia  waiting  for  him,  and  behind  her  Sir 
1 1  ervey,  seated  on  a  corner  of  the  great  oak  table  and  whist- 
ling softly. 


WHO   PLATS,  PAYS  315 

Sophia's  tone  was  grave,  her  face  severe.  "  Tom,"  she 
said,  "  what  have  you  been  doing?  " 

"I?"  he  cried. 

"  Yes,  you,  young  man,"  his  brother-in-law  answered 
sharply.    "  I  see  no  one  else." 

"  Why,  what's  the  bother?  "  Tom  asked  sulkily.  "  If  you 
mean  about  the  girl,  I  kissed  her,  and  what's  the  harm? 
I'm  not  the  first  that's  stolen  a  kiss." 

"Oh,  Tom!" 

"  And  I  sha'n't  be  the  last." 

"  Nor  the  last  that'll  get  his  face  smacked!  "  Sir  Hervey 
retorted  grimly. 

Tom  winced.  "She  has  told  you  that,  has  she?"  he 
muttered. 

"  No,"  Sir  Hervey  answered.    "  Your  cheek  told  me." 

Tom  winced  again.  "  Well,  we're  quits  then,"  he  said 
sullenly.  "  She  needn't  have  come  Polly  Peachuming 
here! " 

Sophia  could  contain  herself  no  longer.  "  Oh,  Tom,  you 
don't  know  what  you  have  done,"  she  cried  impetuously. 
"  You  don't  indeed.  You  thought  she  was  my  maid.  You 
took  her  for  my  woman  that  night  we  were  out,  you  know — 
and  she  let  you  think  it." 

"Well?" 

"  But  she  is  not." 

"  Then,"  Tom  cried  in  a  rage,  "  who  the  devil  is  she?  " 

"  She's  Lady  Betty  Cochrane,  the  duke's  daughter." 

"  And  the  apple  of  his  eye,"  Sir  Hervey  added  with  a 
nod.  "  I  tell  you  what,  my  lad,  I  would  not  be  in  your 
shoes  for  something." 

Tom  stared,  gasped,  seemed  for  a  moment  unable  to 
take  it  in.  But  the  next,  a  wicked  gleam  shone  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  smacked  his  lips. 

"  Well,  Lady  Betty  or  no,  I've  kissed  her,"  he  cried. 
"  I've  kissed  her,  and  she  can't  wipe  it  off!  " 


316  SOPHIA 

"  You  wicked  boy! "  Sophia  cried,  with  indignation. 
"  Do  you  consider  that  she  was  my  guest,  under  my  care, 
and  you  have  insulted  her?  Grossly  and  outrageously  in- 
sulted her,  sir!  She  leaves  to-morrow  in  consequence,  and 
what  am  I  to  say  to  her  people?  What  am  I  to  tell  them? 
Oh,  Tom,  it  was  cruel!  it  was  cruel  of  you!  " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  Sir  Hervey  said,  with  a  touch  of  stern- 
ness, "  you  were  rough  with  her." 

Tom's  momentary  jubilation  died  away.  His  face  was 
gloomy. 

"  I'll  say  anything  you  like,"  he  muttered  doggedly, 
"  except  that  I'm  sorry,  for  I'm  not.  But  I'll  beg  her  par- 
don humbly.  Of  course,  I  should  not  have  done  it  if  I'd 
known  who  she  was." 

"  She  won't  see  you,"  Sophia  answered. 

"  You  might  try  her  again,"  Sir  Hervey  suggested,  be- 
ginning to  take  the  culprit's  part.  "Why  not?  She  need 
not  see  Tom  or  speak  to  him  unless  she  wishes." 

"  I'll  try,"  Sophia  answered;  and  she  went  and  presently 
came  back.  Lady  Betty  would  stay,  and,  of  course,  "  she 
couldn't  forbid  Sir  Thomas  Maitland  his  sister's  house." 
But  she  desired  that  all  intercourse  between  them  should  be 
restricted  to  the  barest  formalities. 

Tom  looked  glum.  "  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  if  she'll 
see  me  alone  I'll  beg  her  pardon,  and  let  us  have  done  with 
it!" 

"  She  won't  see  you  alone !  It  is  particularly  that  she 
wishes  to  avoid." 

"  All  right,"  Tom  answered  sulkily.  But  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  before  many  hours  elapsed  he  would  catch  my 
lady  and  make  her  come  to  terms  with  him. 

He  was  mistaken,  however;  as  he  was  also  in  his  expecta- 
tion that  when  they  met  she  would  be  covered  with  shame 
and  confusion  of  face.  When  the  time  came  it  was  he  who 
was  embarrassed.     The  young  lady  appeared,  and  was  an 


WHO   PLAYS,  PAYS  317 

icicle;  stiff,  pale  and  reserved,  she  made  it  clear  that  she 
did  not  desire  to  speak  to  him,  did  not  wish  to  look  at  him, 
and  much  preferred  to  take  things  at  table  from  any  hand 
but  his.  Beyond  this  she  did  not  avoid  his  eyes,  and  in  hers 
was  no  shadow  of  consciousness.  Tom's  face  grew  hot 
,  where  she  had  slapped  it,  he  chafed,  fretted,  raged,  but  he 
got  no  word  with  her.  He  was  shut  out,  he  was  not  of  the 
party,  she  made  him  feel  that;  and  at  the  end  of  twenty- 
four  hours  he  was  her  serf,  her  slave,  watching  her  eye, 
consumed  with  a  desire  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  ready 
to  anticipate  her  wishes,  as  a  dog  those  of  his  master, 
anxious  to  abase  himself  no  matter  how  low,  if  she  would 
give  him  a  word  or  a  look. 

Even  Sir  Hervey  marvelled  at  her  coldness  and  perfect 
self-control.  "  I  suppose  she  likes  him,"  he  said,  as  he 
and  Sophia  walked  on  the  terrace  that  evening. 

"  She  did,  I  fancy,"  Sophia  answered,  "  before  this 
happened." 

"And  now?" 

"  She  does  not  like  him.    I'm  sure  of  that." 

"But  she  may  love  him,  you  mean?"  Sir  Hervey  said, 
interpreting  her  tone  rather  than  her  words. 

"  Yes,  or  hate  him,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  the  one  or  the 
other." 

"  Since  he  kissed  her?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  and  then  on  a  sudden  Sophia  faltered. 
She  felt  the  blood  begin  to  rise  to  her  cheeks  in  one  of 
those  blushes,  the  most  trying  of  all,  that  commence  un- 
certainly, mount  slowly,  but  persist,  and  at  length  deepen 
into  pain.  She  remembered  that  the  man  walking  beside 
her,  talking  of  these  others'  love  affairs,  had  never  kissed 
her!  He  must  think,  he  could  not  but  think,  of  their  own 
case.  He  might  even  fancy  that  she  meant  her  words  for  a 
hint. 

He  saw  her  distress,  understood  it,  and  took  pity  on  her. 


318  SOPHIA 

But  the  abruptness  with  which  he  changed  the  conversa- 
tion, and  by-and-by  withdrew,  persuaded  her  that  he  had 
read  her  thoughts,  and  long  after  he  had  left  her,  her  face 
burned. 

The  whole  matter,  Tom's  misbehaviour  and  the  rest, 
had  upset  her;  she  told  herself  that  this  was  what  ailed 
her  and  made  her  restless.  Nor  was  she  quick  to  regain 
her  balance.  She  found  the  house,  new  as  all  things  in  it 
were  to  her,  dull  and  over-quiet;  she  found  Lady  Betty, 
once  so  lively,  no  company;  she  found  Tom  snappish  and 
ill-tempered.  And  she  blamed  Tom  for  all;  or  told  her- 
self that  town  and  the  opera  and  the  masquerade  had 
spoiled  her  for  a  country  life.  She  did  not  lay  the  blame 
elsewhere.  Even  to  herself  she  did  not  admit  that  Sir 
Hervey,  polite  and  considerate  as  he  was,  to  the  point  of 
leaving  her  much  to  herself,  would  have  pleased  her  better 
had  he  left  her  less.  But  she  did  think— and  with  sore- 
ness— that  he  would  have  been  wiser  had  he  given  her  more 
frequent  opportunities  of  learning  to  be  at  ease  with  him. 

She  did  not  go  further  than  this  even  in  her  thoughts 
until  three  days  after  Tom's  escapade.  Then,  feeling  dull 
herself,  she  came  on  Tom  moping  on  the  terrace,  and  un- 
dertook to  rally  him  on  his  humour.  "  If  you  would  really 
be  in  her  good  graces  again,  'tis  not  the  way  to  do  it,  Tom; 
I  can  tell  you  that,"  she  said.  "  Laugh  and  talk,  and  she'll 
wish  you.  Pluck  up  a  spirit,  and  'twill  win  more  on  her 
than  a  million  sighs." 

;  What's  the  good?"  he  muttered  sourly. 

'  Well,  at  any  rate,  you  do  no  good  by  moping." 
Tom  sat  silent  awhile,  his  head  buried  between  his  hands, 
his  elbows  resting  on  the  balustrade.  "I  don't  see  that 
anything's  any  good,"  he  muttered  at  last.  «  We're  both 
in  one  case,  I  think.  You  know  your  own  business,  I  sup- 
pose. You  know,  I  take  it,  what  you  were  doing  when  you 
married  in  such  a  hurry;  but  I'm  d d,"  with  sudden  vio- 


WHO   PLAYS,  PAYS  319 

lence,  "  if  I  understand  it.  Three  weeks  married,  and  put 
on  one  side  for  another! " 

"Tom!" 

"  Oh,  you  may  Tom  me,  you  don't  alter  it,"  he  answered 
roughly.  "  I  am  hanged  if  I  understand  or  know  what's 
a-foot.  Here  are  you  and  I  sitting  at  home  like  sick  cats, 
and  my  lord  and  my  lady  up  and  down  and  in  and  out,  as 
thick  as  thieves.  That  is  what  it  comes  to.  'Tis  vastly 
pretty,  isn't  it  ?  "  Tom  continued  with  a  cynical  laugh.  "  I 
think  you  said  she  was  under  your  protection.    Oh,  Lord." 

Hitherto,  astonishment  had  rohbed  Sophia  of  speech. 
But  with  Tom's  last  word  her  sense  of  her  duty  to  herself 
and  to  her  husband  awoke,  and  found  her  words. 

"  You  wicked  boy!  "  she  cried  with  indignation.  "  You 
wicked,  miserable  boy!  How  dare  you  even  think  such 
things,  much  more  say  them,  and  say  them  to  me!  Never 
hint  at  such  things  again  if  you  wish  to — to  keep  your 
sister.  Sir  Hervey  and  I  understand  one  another,  you  may 
be  sure  of  that." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  you  do,"  Tom  muttered.  "  For  I 
don't!  "  But  he  spoke  shamefacedly,  and  only  to  cover  his 
discomfiture. 

"  We  understand  one  another  perfectly,"  Sophia  replied 
with  pride,  and  drew  herself  to  her  full  height.  "  For  my 
friend,  she  is  above  your  suspicions,  as  far  above  them  as, 
I  thank  God,  is  my  husband.  No,  not  another  word,  I  have 
heard  too  much  already.  I  don't  wish  to  speak  to  you 
again  until  you  are  in  a  better  mind,  sir." 

She  turned  from  him,  crossed  the  terrace  with  her  proud- 
est step,  and  entered  the  house.  But  underneath  she  was 
panting  with  excitement,  her  head  was  in  a  whirl.  She 
dared  not  think;  and  to  avoid  thought — thought  that 
might  lower  her  in  her  own  eyes,  thought  that  might  wrong 
her  husband — she  hastened  through  the  hall  to  the  still- 
room;  and  finding  that  the  ash-keys  which  she  had  ordered 


320  SOPHIA 

to  be  done  with  green  whey  had  been  boiled  with  white, 
was  sharp  with  the  maid,  and  tart  with  Mrs.  Stokes. 
Thence  she  flew  in  a  bustle  up  the  wide  staircase,  and  along 
the  corridor  under  portraits  of  dead  Cokes,  to  her  room; 
but  there,  thought  seemed  inevitable,  it  was  in  vain  she 
paced  the  floor.  And  feverishly  tying  the  strings  of  her  hat 
she  hurried  down  again,  her  face  burning.    She  would  walk. 

At  the  outer  door  she  paused.  She  saw  that  Tom  was 
still  there,  and  she  was  unwilling  to  pass  him,  lest  he  read 
in  this  sudden  activity  the  sign  of  disturbance.  The  pause 
was  fatal.  A  moment  she  stood  irresolute,  fighting  with 
herself  and  her  cowardly  impulses.  Then  she  opened  the 
door  of  the  grand  drawing-room,  and  gliding  like  a  culprit 
down  its  shadowy  length,  opened  the  door  of  the  smaller 
room,  and  closed  that  too  behind  her.  This  inner  room  was 
little  used  in  the  daytime,  and  though  the  windows  were 
open  the  curtains  were  drawn  across  them.  Stealthily, 
fearing  to  be  observed,  she  raised  the  corner  of  the  nearest 
curtain  and  turned  to  look  at  Lady  Anne's  picture;  the 
lodestone  that  had  drawn  her  hither  as  the  candle  draws 
the  moth.  But  she  never  looked;  for  as  she  turned  she 
met  her  own  face,  pale,  anxious,  plain — yes  plain — staring 
from  the  mirror  at  her  shoulder,  and  what  use  to  look  after 
that?  To  look  would  not  make  Lady  Anne  less  comely  or 
herself  more  fair.    She  let  the  curtain  fall. 

But  she  stood.  Some  one  was  passing  the  open  window.. 
A  voice  she  knew  spoke,  a  second  voice  answered.  And 
from  where  she  stood  Sophia  heard  their  words  as  if  they 
had  spoken  in  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

REPENTANCE    AT   LEISURE 

The  first  speaker  was  Lady  Betty,  and  her  first  remark 
seemed  to  be  an  answer  to  a  question.  "  Well,  'tis  as  you 
like,"  she  said.  "  But  if  you'll  be  guided  by  me  you'll  not 
tell  her.  Then,  when  you  go,  it  will  put  the  finishing  touch 
to  our — friendship  " — with  a  sly  laugh — "  if  that  be  your 
wish,  sir.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  tell  madam,  who  is  be- 
ginning to  be  jealous,  take  my  word  for  it,  there's  an  end  of 
that!  And  there's  this  besides.  If  you  tell  her,  it's  not  to 
be  said  what  she  will  do,  I  warn  you." 

"  She  might  insist  on  going?  "  Sir  Hervey's  voice  an- 
swered.   "  That's  what  you  mean?  " 

"  If  she  knew  she  would  go !  I  think  she  would,  at  any 
rate.  At  the  best  there's  danger.  On  the  other  hand,  say 
nothing  to  her,  and  here's  the  opportunity  you  said  you  de- 
sired. Of  course,  if  you  are  weakening,"  Lady  Betty  con- 
tinued in  the  tone  of  one  ready  to  take  offence,  "  and  don't 
desire  it  any  longer,  that's  another  matter,  sir." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  Sir  Hervey  cried  eagerly,  "  have  I  not 
done  everything  to  show  her  that  she  is  indifferent  to  me? 
Do  you  want  any  other  proof?  Have  I  omitted  anything? 
Have  not  I " — and  then  his  voice  died  abruptly.  The  two 
speakers  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  Sophia 
heard  no  more.  But  she  had  heard  enough.  She  had  heard 
too  much! 

It  is  sadly  trite  that  that  we  cannot  have  we  want.  It 
is  an  old  tale  that  it  is  for  the  sour  grapes  the  mouth  waters, 
21  321 


322  SOPHIA 

and  not  for  the  bunch  within  reach.  A  thousand  kind- 
nesses, the  hand  ever  waiting,  the  smile  ever  ready,  gain  no 
response;  until  a  thousand  rebuffs  have  earned  their  due, 
and  the  smile  and  the  hand  are  another's.  Then,  on  a 
sudden,  the  heart  learns  its  own  bitterness.  Then  we  would 
give  the  world  for  the  look  we  once  flouted,  for  the  kind 
word  from  lips  grown  silent.    And  it  is  too  late.    Too  late! 

In  the  gloom  of  the  inner  drawing-room,  where  she  sat 
with  fingers  feverishly  interlaced,  Sophia  remembered  his 
longsuffering  with  her,  his  thoughtfulness  for  her,  his 
watchfulness  over  her,  proved  by  a  hundred  acts  of  kind- 
ness and  consideration.  By  a  word  at  a  drum  when  she  was 
strange  to  town,  and  knew  few.  By  countenance  and  a  jest 
when  Madam  Harrington  snubbed  her.  By  the  recovery  of 
a  muff— of  value  and  her  sister's — before  it  was  known  that 
she  had  lost  it.  By  the  gift  of  a  birthnight  fan  which  she 
had  never  carried;  and  the  arrangement  of  a  party  to  which 
she  had  not  gone.  By  a  word  of  caution  when  her  infatua- 
tion for  the  Irishman  began  to  be  noticed;  by  a  second  word 
and  a  third.  Through  all  he  had  been  patience,  she  had 
been  scorn.  Now,  on  a  sudden,  she  was  in  the  dust  before 
him.  The  smile  that  had  never  failed  her  in  a  difficulty, 
nor  been  wanting  in  a  strait,  had  its  value  at  last;  and  she 
felt  that  to  read  it  once  more  in  those  eyes  she  would  give 
the  world,  herself,  all! 

But  too  late.  She  had  lost  his  love  as  she  deserved  to 
lose  it.  It  was  her  doing.  She  had  but  herself  to  thank 
that  this  was  the  end.  Only,  she  whispered,  if  he  had 
had  a  little,  a  very  little  more  patience!  A  day  even!  If 
he  had  given  her  one  day  more.  That,  or  left  her  to  her 
fate! 

Fearful  at  last  of  being  found  in  that  room,  seated  before 
his  picture,  she  crept  out  into  the  hall,  and  stood,  mark- 
ing  the  silence  that  prevailed  in  the  house;  listening  to  the 
dull  tick  of  the  clock  that  stood  in  the  corner;  watching  the 


REPENTANCE   AT   LEISURE  323 

motes  that  danced  in  the  dusty  bars  of  sunshine  before  the 
door.  With  pathetic  self-pity  she  found  in  these  things — 
and  in  the  faint  taste  of  dry  rot  that  told  of  the  genera- 
tions that  had  walked  the  old  floor — the  echo  of  her 
thoughts.  Such,  so  quiet,  so  still,  so  regular,  so  far  re- 
moved from  the  joy  of  the  world  was  her  life  to  be  hence- 
forth.   "  And  I  am  young!    I  am  young!  "  she  whispered. 

If  he  had  only,  when  he  met  her  in  Clarges  Row,  left 
her  to  her  fate !  Nothing  worse  could  have  happened  to  her 
than  this  which  had  happened;  and  he  might  have  wedded 
Lady  Betty  in  innocence  and  honour.  The  fault  was  hers, 
and  yet  it  was  his  too.  A  wild  infatuation  had  brought  her 
to  the  brink  of  ruin;  an  impulse  of  chivalry,  scarcely  less 
foolish,  had  led  him  to  save  her.  The  end  for  both  must  be 
misery.  For  him  God  knew  what!  For  her,  loneliness  and 
this  silent,  empty,  ordered  house  with  its  faint  dead  per- 
fume, its  aroma  of  long-stored  linen,  its  savour  of  the  dead 
and  the  by-gone. 

As  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  thinking  these 
thoughts,  the  shadow  of  a  bird  flitted  across  the  patch  of 
sunshine  that  lay  within  the  doorway.  It  startled  her,  and 
she  looked  up,  just  as  Lady  Betty,  swinging  her  hat  by  its 
strings,  and  humming  a  gay  air,  appeared  on  the  threshold. 
The  girl  hung  an  instant  as  in  doubt,  and  then,  whether 
she  espied  Sophia  standing  in  the  shadow  and  did  not  want 
to  meet  her,  or  she  changed  her  mind  for  another  reason, 
she  turned  and  left  the  doorway  empty. 

The  sight  was  too  much  for  Sophia's  composure.  That 
airy,  laughing  figure — youthful,  almost  infantine — poised 
in  sunshine — that  and  her  own  brooding  face,  seen  lately  in 
the  glass,  suggested  a  comparison  that  filled  her  heart  to 
bursting.  She  crept  to  the  oak  side  table  that  stood  in  the 
bayed  recess  behind  the  door,  and  leaning  her  arms  upon  it, 
hid  her  face  in  them.  She  did  not  weep,  but  from  time  to 
time  she  shivered,  as  if  the  June  air  chilled  her. 


324  SOPHIA 

She  had  sat  in  this  position  some  minutes  when  a  faint 
sound  roused  her.  Ashamed  of  being  found  in  that  post- 
ure, she  looked  up,  and  saw  Lady  Betty  in  the  act  of  cross- 
ing the  hall  on  tip-toe.  Apparently  the  girl  had  just  entered 
from  the  terrace  and  thought  herself  alone;  for  when  she 
reached  the  middle  of  the  floor,  she  stood  weighing  a  letter 
in  her  hand,  as  if  she  doubted  what  to  do  with  it.  Her  eyes 
travelled  slowly  from  the  long  oak  table  to  an  almoner;  and 
thence  to  a  chest  that  stood  beside  the  inner  door.  In  the 
end  she  chose  the  chest,  and,  gliding  to  the  door,  placed  the 
letter  on  it,  arranging  its  position  with  peculiar  care.  Then 
she  turned  to  go  out  again  by  the  terrace  door,  but  had  not 
taken  two  steps  before  her  eyes  met  Sophia's.  She  uttered 
a  low  cry,  and  stood,  arrested. 

Sophia  did  not  speak,  but  she  rose,  crossed  the  hall, 
and  as  the  other,  with  a  rapid  movement,  recovered  the 
letter  from  the  chest,  she  extended  her  hand  for  it. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  Lady  Betty  confronted  her,  holding  the 
letter  hidden.  *Then,  whether  Sophia's  pale  set  face  cowed 
her,  or  she  really  had  no  choice,  she  held  out  the  letter. 
"  It  is  for  you,"  she  faltered.    "  But " 

"  But,"  Sophia  answered,  taking  her  up  with  quiet  scorn, 
"  I  was  not  to  know  the  bearer!    I  am  obliged  to  you." 

Again  for  a  moment  the  two  women  looked  at  one  an- 
other. And  Lady  Betty's  face  grew  slowly  scarlet.  "  You 
have  his  confidence,"  Sophia  continued  in  the  same  tone. 
"  It's  fitting  you  wait,  miss,  and  take  the  answer." 

"  But  he's  gone,"  Betty  stammered. 

"  Then  I  do  not  think  you  will  take  the  answer!  "  Sophia 
retorted.  "  But  you  will  wait,  nevertheless!  You  will  wait 
my 'pleasure."  She  broke  the  seal  as  she  spoke,  and  began 
to  read  the  contents  of  the  note.  They  were  short.  A 
moment  and  she  crumpled  the  paper  in  her  hand  and 
dropped  it  on  the  floor.    "  A  very  proper  letter,"  she  said 


REPENTANCE   AT  LEISURE  325 

with  a  sneer.  "  There's  no  fault  to  be  found  with  it,  I  am 
sure.  He  is  my  affectionate  husband,  I  can  be  no  less  than 
his  dutiful  wife.  'Tis  no  part  of  a  dutiful  wife  to  find  fault 
with  her  husband's  letter,  I  suppose." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  would  be  at,"  Lady  Betty 
muttered,  looking  more  and  more  frightened. 

"  No  ?  That's  what  I'm  going  to  explain — if  you'll  sit, 
miss?     Sit,  girl!  " 

Lady  Betty  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  obeyed,  an  un- 
easy look  in  her  eyes.  Sophia  sat  also,  on  the  farther  side 
of  the  small  oak  table;  but  for  a  full  minute  she  did  not 
speak.  When  she  did  her  voice  had  lost  its  bitterness,  and 
was  low  and  absent  and  passionless.  "  There  are  two 
things  to  be  talked  about — you  and  I,"  she  said,  drumming 
slowly  on  the  table  with  her  fingers.  "  And  by  your  leave 
I'll  speak  of  myself  first.  If  I  could  set  him  free  I  would! 
D'you  hear  me?  D'you  understand?  If  the  worst  that 
could  have  befallen  me  in  Charges  Row,  the  worst  that  he 
had  in  his  mind  when  he  married  me,  were  the  price  to  be 
paid,  I  would  pay  it  to-day.  He  should  be  free  to  marry 
whom  he  would;  and  if  by  raising  my  hand  I  could  come 
between  him  and  her  I  would  not!  Nay,  if  by  raising  my 
hand  I  could  bring  them  together  I  would!  And  that 
though  when  he  married  me,  he  did  me  as  great  a  wrong  as 
a  man  can  do  a  woman !  " 

Suddenly,  without  warning,  Lady  Betty  burst  into  irre- 
pressible sobbing.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  do  you  hate  him 
so!" 

"  Hate  him?  "  Sophia  answered.  "Hate  him?  No,  fool, 
I  love  him  so!"  And  then  in  a  strain  of  bitterness,  the 
more  intense  as  she  spoke  in  a  tone  little  above  a  whisper. 
"  You  start,  miss?  You  think  me  a  fool,  I  know,  to  tell 
you  that!  But  see  how  proud  I  am!  I  will  not  keep  from 
the  woman  he  loves  the  least  bit  of  her  triumph!  Let  her 
enjoy  it — though  'tis  an  empty  one — for  I  cannot  free  him, 


326  SOPHIA 

do  what  I  will!  Let  her  know,  for  her  pleasure,  that  she  is 
fairer  than  I,  as  I  know  it !  Let  her  know  that  she  has  won 
the  heart  that  should  be  mine,  and — which  will  be  sweetest 
of  all  to  her — that  I  would  fain  have  won  it  myself  and 

could  not!  Let  her but  you  are  crying,  miss?  And  I'd 

forgotten.  What's  all  this  to  you?  "  with  a  change  to  quiet 
irony.  "  You  are  too  young  to  understand  such  things! 
And,  of  course,  'twas  not  of  this  that  I  wished  to  speak  to 
you;  but  of  yourself,  and  of — Tom.  Of  course — Tom," 
with  a  faint  laugh.  "  I'm  sorry  that  he  misbehaved  to  you 
in  the  park.  I've  had  it  on  my  mind  ever  since.  There's 
but  one  thing  to  be  clone,  I  am  sure,  and  that  is  what  your 
own  judgment,  Lady  Betty  " 

"Sophy!" 

But  Sophia  continued  without  heeding  the  remonstrance 
— "  pointed  out  to  you!  I  mean,  to  return  to  your  mother 
without  loss  of  time.  It  is  best  for  you,  and  best  for — 
Tom,"  with  a  crooked  smile.  "  Best,  indeed,  for  all  of 
us." 

Lady  Betty,  her  face  held  aloof,  was  busy  drying  her 
tears;  her  position  such  that  it  was  not  possible  to  say  what 
her  sentiments  were,  nor  whether  her  emotion  was  real  or 
assumed.  But  at  that  she  looked  up,  startled;  she  met  the 
other's  eyes.  "  Do  you  mean,"  she  muttered,  "  that  I  am 
to  go  home?  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  Sophia  answered  coldly.  "  'Tis  only  what 
you  wished  yourself,  three  days  ago." 

"  But — but  Sir  Tom  hasn't — hasn't  troubled  me  again," 
Betty  faltered. 

"Tom?"  Sophia,  answered,  in  a  peculiar  tone.  "Ah, 
no.  But — I  doubt  if  he's  to  be  trusted.  Meanwhile,  I 
gather  from  the  letter  you  gave  me  that  Sir  Hervey  will 
not  return  until  to-morrow  noon.  We  must  act  then  with- 
out him.  You  will  start  at  daybreak  to-morrow.  I  shall 
accompany  you  as  far  as  Lewes.    Thence  Mrs.  Stokes,  who 


REPENTANCE   AT  LEISURE  327 

has  been  in  London,  and  Watkyns,  with  sufficient  attend- 
ance, will  see  you  safe  to  her  Grace's  house.  You  are  in 
my  care  " 

"  And  you  send  me  home  in  disgrace!  " 

"  Not  at  all!  "  my  lady  answered,  with  coldness.  "  The 
fault  is  Tom's." 

"  And   I   suffer!     Do   you  mean,   do   you   really   mean 

"  Betty  protested,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment,  "  that  I 

am  to  go  back  to-morrow — at  daybreak — by  myself?'" 

"  I  do." 

"Before  Sir  Hervey  returns?" 

"  To  be  sure." 

"But  it  is  monstrous!"  Betty  cried,  grown  indignant; 
and  in  her  excitement  she  rose  and  stood  opposite  Sophia. 
"  It  is  absurd !  Why  should  I  go  ?  In  this  haste,  and  like  a 
thing  disgraced?    I've  done  nothing!    I  don't  understand." 

Sophia  rose  also;  her  face  still  pale,  a  fire  smouldering  in 
her  eyes.  "Don't  you?"  she  said.  "Don't  you  under- 
stand?" 

"  No." 

"  Think  again,  girl.    Think  again!  " 

"  N-no,"  Betty  repeated;  but  this  time  her  voice  qua- 
vered. Her  eyes  sank  before  Sophia's,  and  a  fresh  wave  of 
colour  swept  over  her  face.  There  is  an  innocent  shame  as 
well  as  a  guilty  shame;  a  shame  caused  by  that  which  others 
think  us,  as  well  as  by  that  which  we  are.  Betty  sank  under 
this,  yet  made  a  fight.  "  Why  should  I  go?  "  she  repeated 
weakly. 

"  Not  for  my  sake,"  Sophia  answered  gravely.  "  For 
your  own.  Because  I  have  more  thought  for  you,  more 
mercy  for  you,  more  compassion  for  you  than  you  have 
for  yourself.  You  say  you  go  in  disgrace?  It  is  not  true; 
but  were  you  to  stay,  you  would  stay  in  disgrace!    From 

that  I  shall  save  you  whether  you  will  or  no.     Only " 

and  suddenly  stretching  out  her  hand  she  seized  Betty's 


328  SOPHIA 

shoulder  and  swayed  the  slighter  girl  to  and  fro  by  it — 
"  only,"  she  cried,  with  sudden  vehemence,  "  don't  think 
I  do  it  to  rid  myself  of  you!  To  keep  him,  or  to  hold  him, 
or  to  glean  after  you!  If  I  could  give  him  the  woman  he 
loves  I  would  give  her  to  him,  though  you  were  that  woman! 
If  I  could  set  her  in  my  place,  I  would  set  her  there, 
though  her  foot  were  on  my  breast!  But  I  cannot.  I  can- 
not, girl.    And  you  must  go." 

She  let  her  hand  fall  with  the  last  word;  but  not  so 
quickly  that  Betty  had  not  time  to  snatch  it  to  her  lips  and 
kiss  it — kiss  it  with  an  odd  strangled  cry.  The  next  instant 
the  girl  flung  herself  on  the  bench  beside  the  table,  and 
hiding  her  head  on  her  arms — as  Sophia  had  hidden  hers 
a  while  before — she  gave  herself  up  to  unrestrained  weep- 
ing. For  a  few  seconds  Sophia  stood  watching  her  with  a 
cold,  grave  face;  then  she  shivered,  and  turning  in  silence, 
left  the  hall. 

Strange  to  say,  the  door  had  barely  fallen  to  behind 
her  when  a  change  came  over  Lady  Betty.  She  raised  her 
head  and  looked  round,  her  eyes  shining  through  her  tears. 
As  soon  as  she  was  certain  that  she  was  alone,  she  sprang  to 
her  feet,  and  waving  her  hat  by  its  ribands  round  her  head, 
spun  round  the  table  in  a  frantic  dance  of  triumph,  her 
hoop  sweeping  the  hall  from  end  to  end,  yet  finding  it  too 
small  for  the  exuberance  of  her  joy.  Pausing  at  last, 
breathless  and  dishevelled,  "  Oh,  you  dear!  Oh,  you 
angel!  "  she  cried.  "  You'd  give  him  the  woman  he  loves, 
would  you,  ma'am — if  you  could!  You'd  set  her  foot  on 
your  breast,  if  'twould  make  him  happy?  Oh,  it  was  better 
than  the  best  play  that  ever  was,  it  was  better  than  '  Good- 
man's Fields,'  or  '  Mr.  Quinn,'  to  hear  her  stab  herself,  and 
stab  herself,  and  stab  herself!  If  he  doesn't  kiss  her  shoes, 
if  lie  does  not  kneel  in  the  dust  to  her,  I'll  never  believe 
in  man  again!  I'll  die  a  maid  at  forty  and  content!  I'll — 
but  oh,  la! "     ibid  Lady  Betty  broke  off  suddenly  with  a 


REPENTANCE   AT   LEISURE  329 

look  of  consternation,  "I'd  forgotten!  What  am  I  to  do? 
She's  a  dragon.  She'll  not  let  me  stay  till  he  returns,  no, 
not  if  I  go  on  my  knees  to  her!  And  if  I  go,  I  lose  all!  Oh, 
la,  sweet,  what  am  I  to  do?  " 

She  thought  awhile  with  a  lace  full  of  mischief.  "  Coke 
might  meet  us  in  Lewes,"  she  muttered,  "  and  cut  the  knot, 
hut  that's  a  chance.  Or  I  might  tell  her — and  that's  to 
spoil  sport.  I  must  get  a  note  to  him  to-night.  But  she'll 
be  giving  her  orders  now,  I  expect;  and  it's  odds  the  men 
won't  carry  it.  There's  only  Tom,  and  that's  putting  my 
hand  in  very  far!  " 

She  thought  awhile,  then  rubbed  her  lips  with  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  laughing  and  blushing  looked  at  it.  "  Well  it 
leaves  no  mark,"  she  muttered  with  a  grimace.  "  And  if 
he's  rude  I  can  pay  him  as  I  paid  him  before." 

Apparently  she  would  face  the  risk,  for  she  set  herself 
busily  to  search  among  the  dog-leashes  and  powder-horns, 
holsters,  and  tattered  volumes  of  farriery,  that  encum- 
bered the  great  table.  Presently  she  unearthed  a  pewter 
ink-pot  and  an  old  swan-quill;  and  bearing  these,  and  a 
flyleaf  ruthlessly  torn  from  a  number  of  the  Gentleman'' s 
Magazine,  to  a  table  in  the  bay  window,  she  sat  down  and 
scrawled  a  few  lines.  She  folded  the  note  into  the  shape  of 
a  cocked  hat,  bound  it  deftly  about  with  a  floss  of  silk  torn 
from  her  ribands;  and  having  succeeded  so  far,  lacked  only 
a  postman.  She  had  a  good  idea  where  he  was  to  be  found, 
and  having  donned  her  hat  and  tied  the  strings  more  nicely 
than  usual,  went  on  the  terrace.  There  she  was  not  long  in 
discovering  him.  He  was  kicking  his  heels  on  the  horse- 
block under  the  oak,  between  the  terrace  and  the  stables. 

No  one  knew  better  than  her  ladyship  how  to  play  the 
innocent;  but  on  this  occasion  she  had  neither  time  nor 
mind  to  be  taken  by  surprise.  She  tripped  down  the  steps, 
crossed  the  intervening  turf,  and  pausing  before  him  opened 
her  fire. 


330  SOPHIA 

"  Do  you  wish  to  earn  your  pardon,  sir?  "  she  asked. 
Her  manner  was  as  cold  and  formal  as  it  had  been  for 
the  last  three  days. 

Tom  rose  sheepishly,  his  mind  in  a  whirl.  For  days  she 
had  avoided  him.  She  had  drawn  in  her  skirts  if  he  passed 
near  her;  she  had  ignored  his  hand  at  table;  she  had  looked 
through  him  when  he  spoke.  Until  she  paused,  until  her 
voice  sounded  in  his  ears,  he  had  thought  she  would  go  by 
him;  and  for  a  moment  he  could  not  find  his  tongue  to 
answer  her.  Then  "  I  don't  understand,"  he  muttered 
sullenly. 

"  I  spoke  plainly,"  Lady  Betty  answered,  in  a  voice  clear 
as  a  bell.  "But  I  will  say  it  again.  Do  you  wish,  sir, 
to  earn  your  pardon?  " 

Tom's  face  flamed.  Unfortunately,  his  ill-conditioned 
side  was  uppermost.  "  I  don't  want  another  slap  in  the 
face,"  he  grumbled. 
•  "  And  I  do  not  want  what  I  have  found,"  Lady  Betty 
retorted  with  dignity,  though  the  rebuff,  which  she  had 
not  expected,  stung  her.  "  I  came  in  search  of  a  gentleman 
willing  to  do  a  lady  a  service,  and  I  have  not  found  one. 
After  this  our  acquaintance  is  at  an  end,  sir.  You  will 
oblige  me  by  not  speaking  to  me.  Good  evening."  And 
she  swept  away  her  head  in  the  air. 

Tom  was  not  of  the  softest  material,  but  at  that,  brute 
and  boor  were  the  best  names  he  gave  himself.  The  love 
that  resentment  had  held  at  bay,  returned  in  a  flood  and 
overwhelmed  him.  Sinking  under  remorse,  feeling  that  he 
would  now  die  for  a  glance  from  her  eyes  whom  he  had 
again  and  hopelessly  offended,  he  rushed  after  her.  Over- 
taking her  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  he  implored  her,  with 
humble,  incoherent  prayers,  to  forgive  him — to  forgive 
him  once  more,  only  once  more,  and  he  would  be  her  slave 
for  ever! 

It's  only  one  chance  I  ask,"  he  panted.     "Give  me 


REPEXTANCE   AT  LEISURE  331 

one  more  chance  of — of  showing  that  I  am  not  the  brute 
you  think  me.  Oh,  Lady  Betty,  forgive  me,  and — and  for- 
get what  I  said.  You've  cut  me  to  the  heart  every  hour  for 
days  past;  you  haven't  looked  at  me;  you've  treated  me  as 
if  I  were  something  lower  than  a  thief-taker.  And — and 
when  I  was  smarting  under  this,  because  I'd  rather  have  a 
word  from  your  lips  than  a  kiss  from  another,  you  came  to 
me,  and  I — I've  misbehaved  myself  worse  than  before." 

"  No,  not  worse,"  Lady  Betty  said,  in  her  cold,  clear 
voice.     "  That  was  impossible." 

"  But  as  bad  as  I  could,"  Tom  confessed,  not  over-com- 
forted. "  Oh  why,  oh  why,"  he  continued,  piteously,  "  am 
I  always  at  my  worst  with  you?  For  I  think  more  of  you 
than  of  any  one.  I'm  always  thinking  of  you.  I  can  t  sleep 
for  thinking — what  you  are  thinking  of  me,  Lady  Betty. 
I'd  lie  down  in  the  dust,  and  let  you  walk  over  me  if  it 

would  give  you  any  pleasure.    If  it  weren't  for  those  d d 

windows  I'd  kneel  down  now  and  ask  your  pardon." 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  the  windows  make,"  Lady 
Betty  said,  in  her  coldest  tone.  "  They  don't  make  your 
offence  any  less." 

Tom  might  have  answered  that  they  made  his  punish- 
ment the  greater;  but,  instead,  he  plumped  down  on  the 
lowest  step,  careless  who  saw  him  if  only  Betty  forgave 
him.    "  Oh,  Lady  Betty,"  he  cried,  "  forgive  me!  " 

"  That  is  better,"  she  said,  judiciously. 

"  Oh,  Lady  Betty,"  he  cried,  "  I  humbly  ask  you  to 
forgive  me." 

Lady  Betty  looked  at  him  quietly  from  an  upper  step. 

"  You  may  get  up,"  she  said.  "  But  I  warn  you,  sir,  you 
have  yet  to  earn  your  pardon.  You  have  promised  much, 
I  want  but  a  little.  Will  you  take  a  note  from  me  to  Lewes 
to-night?" 

"If  I  live!"  he  cried,  his  eyes  sparkling.  "But  that's 
a  small  thing." 


332  SOPHIA 

"  I  trust  in  small  things  first,"  she  answered. 

"  And  great  afterwards  ?  " 

She  had  much  ado  not  to  laugh,  he  looked  at  her  so 
piteously,  his  hands  clasped.  "  Perhaps/'  she  said.  "  At 
any  rate  the  future  will  show.  Here  is  the  note."  She 
passed  it  to  him  quickly,  with  one  eye  on  the  windows. 
"  You  will  tell  no  one,  you  will  mention  it  to  no  one;  but 
you  will  see  that  it  reaches  his  hands  to-night." 

"  It  shall  if  I  live,"  Tom  answered  fervently.  "  To  whom 
am  I  to  deliver  it?  " 

"  To  Sir  Hervey." 

Tom  swore  outright,  and  turned  crimson.  They  looked 
at  one  another,  the  man  and  the  maid. 

When  Betty  spoke  again — after  a  long,  strange  pause, 
during  which  he  stood  holding  the  note  loosely  in  his 
fingers  as  if  he  would  drop  it — it  was  in  a  tone  of  passion 
which   she   had   not  used  before.     "  Listen! "   she   said. 
"Listen,  sir,  and  understand  if  you  can — for  it  behoves 
you!     There  is  an  offence  that  passes  forgiveness.     I  be- 
lieve that  a  moment  ago  you  were  on  the  point  of  com- 
mitting it.    If  so,  and  if  you  have  not  yet  repented,  think, 
think  before  you  do  commit  it.    For  there  will  be  no  place 
for  repentance  afterwards.     It  is  not  for  me  to  defend  my 
conduct,  nor  for  you  to  suspect  it,"  the  young  girl  con- 
tinued proudly.    "  That  is  my  father's  right,  and  my  hus- 
band's when  I  have  one.     It  imports  no  one  else.     But  I 
will  stoop  to  tell  you  this,  sir.     If  you  had  said  the  words 
that  were  on  your  lips  a  moment  ago,  as  surely  as  you  stand 
there  to-day,  you  would  have  come  to  me  to-morrow  to 
crave  my  pardon,  and  to  crave  it  in  shame,  in  comparison 
of  which  anything  you  have  felt  to-day  is  nothing.     And 
you  would  have  craved  it  in  vain !  "  she  continued  vehe- 
mently.    "  I  would  rather  the  lowest  servant  here — soiled 
my  lips — than  you !  " 

Her  passion  had  so  much  the  better  of  her,  when  she 


REPENTANCE   AT  LEISURE  333 

came  to  the  last  words,  that  she  could  scarcely  utter  them. 
But  she  recovered  herself  with  marvellous  rapidity.  "  Do 
you  take  the  note,  sir,"  she  said  coldly,  "  or  do  you  leave 
it?" 

"  I  will  take  it,  if  it  be  to  the  devil!  "  he  cried. 

"No,"  she  answered  quickly;  and  she  stayed  him  by  a 
haughty  gesture.  "That  will  not  do!  Do  you  take  it, 
thinking  no  evil?  Do  you  take  it,  thinking  me  a  good 
woman?  Or  do  you  take  it  thinking  me  something  lower, 
infinitely  lower,  than  the  creatures  you  make  your  sport 
and  pastime?  " 

"I  do,  I  do  believe!"  Tom  cried;  and,  dropping  on  his 
knees,  he  hid  his  face  against  her  hoop-skirt,  and  pressed 
his  lips  to  the  stuff.  And  strange  to  say  when  he  had  risen 
and  gone — without  another  word — there  were  tears  in  the 
girl's  eyes.    Tom  had  touched  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A    DRAGON    DISARMED 

It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  low  sun  shone 
athwart  the  cool,  green  sward  of  the  park,  leaving  the  dells 
and  leafy  retreats  of  the  deer  in  shadow.  In  the  window 
recess  of  the  hall,  whence  the  eye  had  that  view,  and  could 
drink  in  the  freshness  of  the  early  morning,  the  small  oak 
table  was  laid  for  breakfast.  Old  plate  that  had  escaped 
the  melting-pot  and  the  direful  year  of  the  new  coinage, 
dragon  china  imported  when  Queen  Anne  was  young,  linen, 
white  as  sun  and  dew  or  D'Oyley  could  make  it,  gave  back 
the  pure  light  of  early  morning,  and  bade  welcome  a  guest 
as  dainty  as  themselves.  Yet  Lady  Betty,  for  whom  the 
table  was  prepared,  and  who  stood  beside  it  in  an  attitude  of 
expectation,  tapped  the  floor  with  her  foot  and  looked  but 
half  pleased.  "  Is  Lady  Coke  not  coming?  "  she  asked  at 
last. 

"  No,  my  lady,"  Mrs.  Stokes  answered.  "  Her  ladyship 
is  taking  her  meal  in  her  room." 

"  Oh!  "  Lady  Betty  rejoined  drily.  "  She's  not  ailing,  I 
hope?" 

"  No,  my  lady.  She  bade  me  say  that  the  chariot  would 
be  at  the  door  at  half  after  five." 

Betty  grimaced,  but  took  her  seat  in  silence,  and  kept 
one  eye  on  the  clock.  Had  her  messenger  played  her  false? 
Or  was  Coke  incredulous?  Or  what  kept  him?  Even  if 
he  did  not  come  before  they  set  out,  he  might  meet  them  on 
the  hither  side  of  Lewes;  but  that  was  a  slender  thread  to 

334 


A  DRAGON  DISARMED  335 

which  to  trust,  and  Lady  Betty  had  no  mind  to  be  packed 
home  in  error.  As  the  finger  of  the  clock  in  the  corner 
moved  slowly  downwards,  as  the  sun  drank  up  the  dew  on 
leaf  aud  bracken,  and  the  day  hardened,  she  listened,  and 
more  intently  listened  for  the  foot  that  was  overdue.  It 
wanted  but  five  minutes  of  the  half  hour  now!  Now  it 
wanted  but  three  minutes!  Two  minutes!  Now  the  rustle 
of  my  lady's  skirts  was  on  the  stairs,  the  door  was  opened 
for  her  to  enter  and — and  then  at  last,  Betty  caught  the 
ring  of  spurred  heels  on  the  pavement  of  the  terrace. 

"He's  come!"  she  cried,  springing  from  her  seat,  and 
forgetting  everything  else  in  her  relief.     "He's  come! 

Sophia  from  the  inner  threshold  stared  coldly.  "  Who  ? 
she  asked.  It  was  the  first  time  the  two  had  met  in  the 
morning  and  had  not  kissed;  but  there  are  bounds  to  the 
generosity  of  woman,  and  Sophia  could  not  stoop  to  kiss 
her  rival.  "Who?"  she  repeated,  standing  stiffly  aloof, 
near  the  door  by  which  she  had  entered. 

"  You  will  see! "  Betty  cried,  with  a  bubble  of  laughter. 
"  You  will  see." 

The  next  moment  Sir  Hervey's  figure  darkened  the  open 
doorway,  and  Sophia  saw  him  and  understood.  For  an 
instant  surprise  drove  the  blood  from  her  cheeks;  then,  as 
astonishment  gave  place  to  indignation,  and  to  all  the  feel- 
ings which  a  wife — though  a  wife  in  name  only — might  lie 
expected  to  experience  in  such  a  position,  the  tide  returned 
in  double  volume.  She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  move; 
but  she  saw  that  they  understood  one  another,  she  felt 
that  this  sudden  return  was  concerted  between  them;  and 
her  eyes  sparkled,  her  bosom  rose.  If  she  had  never  been 
beautiful  before,  Sophia  was  beautiful  at  that  moment. 

Sir  Hervey  smiled,  as  he  looked  at  her.  "  Good  morning, 
my  dear,"  he  said  cheerily.  "  I'm  of  the  earliest,  or  thought 
I  was.    But  you  had  nearly  stolen  a  march  on  me." 

She  did  not  answer  him.    "  Lady  Betty,"  she  said,  with- 


336  SOPHIA 

out  turning  her  head  or  looking  at  the  girl,  "  you  had  better 
'  leave  us." 

"Yes,  Betty,  away  with  you!''  he  cried,  good  humour- 
edly.  "  You'll  find  Tom  outside."  And  as  Betty  whisked 
away  through  the  open  door,  "  You'll  pardon  me,  my  dear," 
he  continued  quietly,  but  with  dignity,  "  I  have  counter- 
manded the  carriage.  When  you  have  heard  what  I  have  to 
say  you  will  agree  with  me,  I  am  sure,  that  there  is  no  neces- 
sity for  our  guest  to  leave  us  to-day."  He  laid  his  whip 
aside,  as  he  spoke,  and  turned  to  the  table  from  which  Lady 
Betty  had  lately  risen.  "  I  have  not  broken  my  fast,"  he 
said.    "  Give  me  some  tea,  child." 

A  wild  look,  as  of  a  creature  caged  and  beating  vain 
wings  against  bars,  darkened  Sophia's  eyes.  She  was 
trembling  with  agitation,  panting  to  resist,  outraged  in 
her  pride  if  not  in  her  love;  and  he  asked  for  tea!  Yet 
words  did  not  come  at  once,  his  easy  manner  had  its  effect; 
as  if  she  acknowledged  that  he  had  still  a  right  to  her 
service,  she  sat  down  at  the  little  table  in  the  window  bay. 
He  passed  his  legs  over  the  bench  on  the  other  side,  and 
sat  waiting,  the  width  of  the  table  only — and  it  was  nar- 
row— between  them.  As  she  washed  Betty's  cup  in  the 
basin  the  china  tinkled,  and  betrayed  her  agitation;  but 
she  managed  to  make  his  tea  and  pass  it  to  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  quietly.  "  And  now  for  what  I 
was  saying.  Lady  Betty  sent  me  a  note  last  night,  stating 
that  she  was  to  go  to-day,  unless  I  interceded  for  her.  It 
was  that  brought  me  back  this  morning." 

Sophia's  eyes  burned,  but  she  forced  herself  to  speak 
with  calmness.  "  Did  she  tell  you,"  she  asked,  "  why  she 
was  to  go?  " 

Sir  Hervey  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Well,"  he  said, 
with  a  smile,  "  she  hinted  at  the  reason." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  what  I  had  said  to  her?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  he  said  politely.  "  Probably 
space " 


A  DRAGON  DISARMED  337 

"  Or  shame!  "  Sophia  cried;  and  the  next  moment  could 
have  bitten  her  tongue.  "  Pardon  me,"  she  said  in  an 
altered  tone,  "  I  had  no  right  to  say  that.  But  if  she  has 
not  told  you,  'tis  I  must  tell  you,  myself.  And  it  is  more 
fitting.  I  am  aware  that  you  have  discovered — all  too  soon, 
Sir  Hervey — that  our  marriage,  if  it  could  be  called  a  mar- 
.riage,  was  a  mistake.  I  cannot — I  cannot,"  Sophia  con- 
tinued, trembling  from  head  to  foot,  "  take  all  the  blame  of 
that  to  myself,  though  I  know  that  the  first  cause  was  my 
fault,  and  that  it  was  I  led  you  to  commit  the  error.  But  I 
cannot  take  all  the  blame,"  she  repeated,  "I  cannot!  For 
you  knew  the  world,  you  should  have  known  yourself,  and 
what  was  likely,  what  was  certain  to  come  of  it!  What  has 
come  of  it! " 

Sir  Hervey  drummed  on  the  table  with  his  fingers,  and 
when  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  tone  of  apology.  "  The  future 
is  hard  to  read,"  he  said.  "  It  is  easy,  child,  to  be  wise  after 
the  event." 

Her  next  words  seemed  strangely  ill-directed  to  the  issue. 
"  You  never  told  me  that  you  had  been  betrothed  before," 
she  said,  "  and  that  she  died.  If  you  had  told  me,  and  if 
I  had  seen  her  face — I  should  have  been  wiser.  I  should 
have  foreseen  what  would  happen.  I  do  not  wonder  that 
such  a  face  seen  again  has  " — she  paused,  stammering  and 
pale,  "  has  recalled  old  times  and  your  youth.  I  have  no 
right  to  blame  you.  I  do  not  blame  you.  At  least,  I — I 
try  not  to  blame  you,"  she  repeated,  her  voice  sinking  lower 
and  lower.  "  I  have  told  her,  and  it  is  true,  that  if  I  could 
bear  all  the  consequences  of  our  error  I  would  bear  them. 
That  if  I  could  release  you  and  set  you  free  to  marry  the — 
the  woman  you  have  learned  to  love — I  would,  sir,  will- 
ingly. That,  at  any  rate,  I  would  not  raise  a  finger  to  pre- 
vent such  a  marriage." 

"  And  did  you — mean  that,"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  his 
face  averted. 
32 


338  SOPHIA 

"  As  God  sees  me,  I  did." 

"  You  are  in  earnest,  Sophia?  "  For  an  instant  he  turned 
his  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"  I  am." 

"  Yet — you  were  for  sending  her  away,"  he  said.  "  This 
morning?  Before  I  could  return?  That  I  might  not  see 
her  affain." 

She  looked  at  him  with  astonishment,  with  indignation. 
"  Cannot  you  understand,"  she  cried,  "  that  that  was  not 
on  my  account,  but  on  hers?  " 

"  It  seems  to  have  been  rather  on  my  account,"  he  mut- 
tered doggedly,  his  fingers  toying  with  the  teaspoon,  his 
eyes  on  the  table.  He  seemed  strangely  changed.  He  did 
not  seem  to  be  himself. 

She  shuddered.  "  At  any  rate,  it  was  not  on  my 
account,"  she  said. 

"  And  you  are  still  fixed  that  she  must  go?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  answered  with  sudden 
determination,  "  I'll  take  you  at  your  word! "  He  raised 
his  cup,  which  was  half  full,  and  held  it  in  front  of  his 
lips,  looking  at  her  across  it  as  he  spoke.  "  You  said  just 
now  that  if  there  was  a  way  to — to  give  me  the  woman  I 
loved — you  would  take  it." 

She  started.    For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer. 

He  waited.  At  last:  "You  didn't  mean  it?"  he  said, 
his  tone  cold. 

The  room,  the  high  window  with  its  stained  escutcheons, 
the  dark  oak  walls,  the  dark  oak  table,  the  leafage  reflected 
cool  and  green  in  the  tall  mirror  opposite  the  door,  went 
round  with  her;  she  swallowed  something  that  rose  in  her 
throat,  and  set  her  teeth  hard,  and  at  length  she  found 
her  voice.    "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  meant  it." 

"Well,  there  is  a  way,"  he  answered;  and  he  rose  from 
the  table,  and,  moving  to  the  door  which  led  to  the  main 


A  DRAGON  DISARMED  339 

hall  and  the  staircase,  he  closed  it.  "  There  is  a  way  of 
doing  it.  But  it  is  not  quite  easy  to  explain  it  to  you  in  a 
moment.  'T was  a  hurried  marriage,  as  you  know,  and  in- 
formal, and  a  marriage  only  in  name.  And  something  has 
happened  since  then." 

He  paused  there;  she  asked  in  a  low  tone,  "  What?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  what  took  me  to  Lewes  yesterday,"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  should  have  told  you  of  it  then,  but  I  was  in 
doubt  how  you  would  take  it.  And  Betty  persuaded  me  not 
to  tell  it.    The  man  Hawkesworth " 

He  paused,  as  she  rose  stiffly  from  the  table.  "  Have  they 
taken  him?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  gently.  "  They  took  him  in  hiding  near 
Chichester.  But  he  was  ill,  dying,  it  was  thought,  when 
they  surprised  him." 

She  had  a  strange  prevision.  "Of  the  smallpox?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  And  then,  "  He  died  last  night," 
he  continued  softly.  "  My  dear,  let  me  get  you  a  little 
cordial." 

"No,  no!    Did  you  see  him?  " 

"  I  did.  And  I  did  what  I  could  for  him.  I  was  with 
him  when  he  died." 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 
Presently  she  shuddered.  "Heaven  forgive  him!"  she 
whispered.  "Heaven  forgive  him,  as  I  do!"  And  again 
she  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  while  he  stood  watching 
her.  At  last,  "  Was  it  about  him,"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice,  "  that  Lady  Betty  was  talking  to  you  on  the  terrace 
yesterday?  " 

"  Yes.  I  asked  her  advice.  I  did  not  know  what  you 
might  do,  if  you  knew.  And  I  did  not  wish  you  to  see 
him." 

"  But  she  had  another  reason,"  Sophia  murmured,  be- 
hind her  hands.  "  There  was  another  motive,  which  she 
urged  for  keeping  it  from  me.    What  was  it?" 


340  SOPHIA 

He  did  not  answer. 

"What  was  it?"  she  repeated,  and  lowered  her  hands 
and  looked  at  him,  her  lips  parted. 

He  walked  up  the  hall  and  back  again  under  her  eyes. 
"  Well/'  he  said,  in  a  tone  elaborately  easy,  "  she  is  but  a 
child,  you  know,  and  does  not  understand  things.  She 
knew  a  little  of  the  circumstances  of  our  marriage,  and  she 
thought  she  knew  more.  She  fancied  that  a  little  jealousy 
might  foster  love;  and  so  it  may,  perhaps,  where  a  spark 
exists.    But  not  otherwise.    That  was  her  mistake." 

"  But — but  I  do  not  understand!  "  Sophia  cried,  her 
hands  shaking,  her  face  bewildered.  "  You  said — you  told 
her  that  you  were  perfectly  indifferent  to  me." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,"  Sir  Hervey  answered  lightly. 
"  Never,  I  am  sure.  I  said,  perhaps,  that  I  had  done  every- 
thing to  show  that  I  was  indifferent  to  you.  That  was  part 
of  her  foolish  plan.    But  there  is  a  distinction,  you  see?  " 

"  Yes,"  Sophia  faltered,  her  face  growing  slowly  scarlet. 
"  There  is  a  distinction,  I  see." 

She  wanted  to  cry,  and  she  wanted  to  think;  and  she 
wanted  to  hide  her  face  from  his  eyes,  but  had  not  the  will 
to  do  it  while  he  looked  at  her.  Her  head  was  going 
round.  If  she  had  misinterpreted  Betty's  words  on  the 
terrace,  and  it  seemed  certain  now  that  she  had,  what  had 
she  done?  Or,  rather,  what  had  she  not  done?  She  had 
fallen  into  Betty's  trap;  she  had  proclaimed  her  own  folly; 
she  had  misjudged  her — and  him!  She  had  clone  them 
foul,  dreadful  wrong;  she  had  insulted  them  horribly,  hor- 
ribly insulted  them  by  her  suspicions!  She  had  proved 
the  meanness  and  lowness  of  her  mind!  While  he  had  been 
thinking  of  her,  and  for  her,  still  shielding  her,  as  he  had 
shielded  her  from  the  beginning — she  had  been  slandering 
him,  accusing  him,  wronging  him,  and  along  with  him  this 
young  girl,  her  guest,  her  friend,  living  under  her  roof! 
It  was  infamous!    Infamous!    What  had  so  warped  her? 


A  DRAGON  DISARMED  341 

And  then,  as  she  sat  overwhelmed  by  shame,  a  ray  of 
light  pierced  the  darkness.  She  looked  at  him,  feeling  on 
a  sudden  cold  and  weak.  "  But  you — you  have  not  yet 
explained!  "  she  muttered. 

"What?" 

ib  How  I  can  help  you  to — to "    Her  voice  failed  her. 

She  could  not  finish. 

"  To  Betty,"  he  said,  seeing  her  stuck  in  a  quagmire  of 
perplexities.    "  I  do  not  want  Betty." 

"Then  what  did  you  mean?"  she  stammered. 

"  I  never  said  I  wanted  Betty,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"  But  you  said " 

"  I  said  that  there  was  a  way  by  which  you  could  help 
me  to  the  woman  I  loved.  And  there  is  a  way.  Betty, 
in  her  note  to  me,  will  have  it  that  you  can  do  it  at  slight 
cost  to  yourself.  That  is  for  you  to  decide.  Only  remem- 
ber, Sophia,"  Sir  Hervey  continued  gravely,  "  you  are  free, 
free  as  air.  I  have  kept  my  word  to  the  letter.  I  shall 
continue  to  keep  it.  If  there  is  to  be  a  change,  if  we  are 
to  come  nearer  to  one  another,  it  must  come  from  you,  not 
from  me." 

She  turned  to  the  window;  and  waiting  for  her  answer 
— which  did  not  come  quickly — he  saw  that  she  was  shak- 
ing.   "  You  don't  help  me,"  she  whispered  at  last. 

"What,  child?" 

"  You  don't  help  me.  You  don't  make  it  easy  for  me." 
And  then  she  turned  abruptly  to  him  and  he  saw  that  the 
tens  were  running  down  her  face.  "  Don't  you  know  what 
you  ought  to  do?"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  hands  and 
lifting  her  face  to  him.  "  You  ought  to  beat  me,  you  ought 
to  shake  me,  you  ought  to  lock  me  in  a  dark  room!  You 
ought  to  tell  me  every  hour  of  the  day  how  mean,  how 
ungrateful,  how  poor  and  despicable  a  thing  I  am — to  take 
all  and  give  nothing!  " 

"  And  that  would  help  you?  "  he  said.  "  'Tis  a  new  way 
of  making  love,  sweet." 


342  SOPHIA 

"  'Tis  an  old  one,"  she  cried  impetuously.  "  You  are  too 
good  to  me.  But  if  you  will  take  me,  such  as  I  am — and — 
and  I  suppose  you  have  not  much  choice,"  she  continued, 
with  an  odd,  shy  laugh,  "  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to 
you,  sir.    And — and  I  shall  thank  you  all  my  life." 

He  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  dropped, 
as  she  spoke,  on  the  bench  beside  the  table,  and  hiding 
her  face  in  her  hands,  began  to  weep  softly — in  the  same 
posture,  and  in  the  same  place,  in  which  she  had  sat  the 
day  before,  but  with  feelings  how  different!  Ah,  how 
different! 

Sir  Hervey  stood  over  her  a  moment,  watching  her.  Her 
riding-cap  had  fallen  off  and  lay  on  the  table  beside  her. 
Her  hair,  clubbed  for  the  journey,  hung  undressed  and 
without  powder  on  her  neck.  He  touched  it  gently,  almost 
reverently  with  his  hand.  It  was  the  first  caress  he  had 
ever  given  her. 

"  Child,"  he  whispered,  "  you  are  not  unhappy?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  cried.  "  I  am  thankful,  I  am  so 
thankful!" 


"  I  said  I  would  let  you  kiss  me?  "  Lady  Betty  exclaimed 
with  indignation.  And  her  eyes  scorched  poor  Tom.  "  It's 
quite  sure,  sir,  I  said  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  But  you  said,"  Tom  stammered,  "  that  if  I  didn't  do 
what  you  wanted,  you  wouldn't!  And  that  meant  that  if 
I  did,  you  would.    Now,  didn't  it?  " 

Lady  Betty  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  utter  disdain  of 
such  reasoning.  "  Oh,  la,  sir,  you  are  too  clever  for  me!  " 
she  cried.  "  I  wasn't  at  college."  And  she  turned  from 
him  contemptuously. 

They  were  at  the  horseblock  under  the  oak,  whither  Tom 
had  followed  her,  with  thoughts  bent  on  bold  emprise. 
And  at  the  first  he  had  put  a  good  face  on  it;  but  the  lesson 


HER    HAIR      .       .       .       HUNG     UNDRESSED    ON    HER    NECK.       HE   TOUCHED    IT 
GENTLY      ...       IT   WAS   THE    FIRST   CARESS    HE    HAD    EVER   GIVEN    HER 


A  DRAGON  DISARMED  343 

of  the  day  before,  and  of  the  day  before  that,  had  not  been 
lost.  The  spirit  had  gone  out  of  him.  The  pout  of  her  lips 
silenced  him,  a  glance  from  her  eyes — if  they  were  cold  or 
distant,  harsh  or  contemptuous — sent  his  heart  into  his 
boots.  He  grovelled  before  her;  it  may  be  that  he  was  of  a 
nature  to  benefit  by  the  experience. 

Having  snubbed  him,  she  was  silent  awhile,  that  the  iron 
might  enter  into  his  sou].  Then  she  looked  to  see  if  he  was 
sullen;  she  found  that  he  was  not.  He  was  only  heart- 
broken, and  her  majesty  relented.  "  I  said,  it  is  true,"  she 
continued,  "  that — that  you  might  earn  your  pardon.  Well, 
you  are  pardoned,  sir;  and  we  are  where  we  were." 

"  May  I  call  you  Betty,  then?  " 

Lady  Betty's  eyes  fell  modestly  on  her  fan.  "  Well,  you 
may,"  she  said.  "  I  think  that  is  part  of  your  pardon,  if  it 
gives  you  any  pleasure  to  call  me  by  my  name.  It  seems 
vastly  foolish  to  me." 

He  was  foolish.  "Betty!"  he  cried  softly.  "Betty! 
Betty!  It'll  be  the  only  name  for  me  as  long  as  I  live. 
Betty!    Betty!    Betty!" 

"What  nonsense!"  Lady  Betty  answered;  but  her  gaze 
fell  before  his. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  ventured,  "  what  it  was  I  said 
of  your  eyes?  " 

"  Of  my  eyes?"  she  cried,  recovering  herself.  "No;  of 
the  maid's  eyes,  if  you  please.  There  was  some  nonsense 
said  of  them,  I  remember." 

"It  was  all  true  of  your  eyes!"  Tom  said,  gathering 
courage  and  fluency.  "  It's  true  of  them  now!  And  all  I 
said  to  the  maid,  I  say  to  you.  And  I  wish,  oh,  I  wish  you 
were  the  maid  again !  " 

"  That  you  might  be  rude  to  me,  I  suppose?  "  she  an- 
swered, tracing  a  figure  with  her  fan  on  the  horseblock. 

"  No,"  Tom  cried.  "  That  I  might  show  you  how  much 
I  love  you.    That  I  might  get  nothing  by  you  but  yourself. 


344  SOPHIA 

Oh,  Betty,  give  me  a  little  hope!  Say  that — that  some  day 
I  shall — I  shall  kiss  you  again." 

Betty,  blushing  and  but  half  disdainful,  studied  the 
ground  with  a  gravity  that  was  not  natural  to  her. 

"  Well,  perhaps — in  a  year,"  she  faltered.  "  Always  sup- 
posing that  you  kiss  no  one  in  the  meantime,  sir." 

"  A  year,  a  whole  year,  Betty!  "  Tom  protested. 

"  Yes,  a  year,  not  a  day  less,"  she  answered  firmly.  "  You 
are  only  a  boy.  You  don't  know  your  own  mind.  I  don't 
know  yet  whether  you  would  treat  me  well.  And  for  wait- 
ing, I'll  have  no  one  kiss  me,"  Betty  continued,  steadfastly, 
"  that  cannot  wait  and  wait,  and  doesn't  think  me  worth 
the  waiting.  So,  sir,  if  you  wish  to  show  that  you  are  a 
man,  you  must  show  it  by  waiting." 

"  A  year!  "  Tom  moaned.    "  It's  an  age!  " 

"  So  it  is  to  a  boy,"  she  retorted.  "  To  a  man  it's  a  year. 
And  as  you  don't  wish  to  wait " 

"  I  will  wait!    I  will  indeed! "  Tom  cried. 

"  Remember  you  must  kiss  no  one  in  the  meantime," 
Betty  continued,  drawing  patterns  on  the  block,  "nor 
write,  nor  speak,  nor  look  a  word  of  love.  You  will  be  on 
your  honour,  and — and  you  will  wait  till  this  day  twelve- 
month, sir." 

"  I  will,"  Tom  cried.  "  I  will,  and  thankfully,  if  you  on 
your  side,  Betty " 

She  sprang  up.  "  What?  "  she  cried,  on  fire  in  an  instant. 
"  You  would  make  terms  with  me,  would  you?  " 

Tom,  the  bold,  the  bully,  cringed.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  No, 
of  course  not.    I  beg  your  pardon,  Betty." 

She  was  silent  for  a  full  half  minute,  and  he  thought  her 
hopelessly  offended.  But  when  she  spoke  again  it  was  hur- 
riedly, and  in  a  tone  of  strange,  new  shyness.  "  Still,  I — I 
don't  ask  what  I  won't  give,"  she  said.  "  You've  kissed  me, 
and  you  are  not  the  same  to  me  as — as  others.  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that.    And — and  what  is  law  for  you  shall  be 


A  DRAGON  DISARMED  345 

law  for  nie.  I  suppose  you  understand/'  she  added,  her 
face  flaming  more  and  more.  And  in  her  growing  bashf  ul- 
ness  she  glanced  at  him  angrily.  "  I  never — I  never  have 
flirted,  of  course,"  she  continued,  despairing  of  making  him 
understand;  "  but  I — I  won't  flirt  this  year  if  you  are  in 
earnest." 

Somehow  Tom  had  got  her  hand,  and  was  kissing  it. 
And  the  two  formed  a  pretty  picture.  But  the  time  al- 
lowed them  was  short.  Tom's  ecstasy  was  interrupted  by 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps.  Sir  Hervey  and 
Sophia  had  descended  the  steps  of  the  terrace  followed  by 
the  old  vicar,  who  looked  little  the  worse  for  his  fainting- 
fit. He  bore  on  his  arm  a  new  gown,  the  gift  of  his  patron, 
and  the  token  of  his  own  favour,  if  not  of  his  wife's  for- 
giveness. The  three  were  so  closely  engaged  in  talk  that 
until  they  came  face  to  face  with  the  other  pair  they  were 
not  conscious  of  their  presence.  Then  for  a  moment 
Sophia  faltered  and  hung  back,  shamed  and  conscience- 
stricken,  reminded  of  the  things  she  had  said,  and  the 
worse  things  she  had  thought,  of  her  friend.  But  in  a  breath 
the  two  girls  were  in  one  another's  arms. 

Tom  looked  and  groaned.  "  Oh,  Lordl "  he  said.  "  A 
year!    A  whole  year! " 


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'«  No  novelist  outside  of  France  has  displayed  a  more  definite  comprehension  of  the  very 
essence  of  mediaeval  French  life,  and  no  one,  certainly,  has  been  able  to  set  forth  a  depiction 
of  i\  in  colors  so  vivid  and  so  entirely  in  consonance  with  the  truth.  .  .  .  The  characters 
in  the  tale  are  admirably  drawn,  and  the  narrative  is  nothing  less  than  fascinating  in  its  fine 
flavot  of  adventure."— Beacon,  Boston. 

"  We  hardly  know  whether  to  call  this  latest  work  of  Stanley  J.  Weyman  a  historical 
romance  or  a  story  of  adventure.  It  has  all  the  interesting,  fascinating  and  thrilling  charac- 
teristics of  both.  The  scene  is  in  France,  and  the  time  is  that  fateful  eventful  one  which 
culminated  in  Henry  of  Navarre  becoming  king.  Naturally  it  is  a  story  of  plots  and  intrigue, 
of  danger  and  of  the  grand  passion,  abounding  in  intense  dramatic  scenes  and  most  interest- 
ing situations.    It  is  a  romance  which  will  rank  among  the  masterpieces  of  historic  fiction." 

— Advertiser,  Boston. 

MA  romance  after  the  style  of  Dumas  the  elder,  and  well  worthy  of  being  read  by  those 
who  can  enjoy  stirring  adventures  told  in  true  romantic  fashion.  .  .  .  The  great  person- 
ages of  the  time— Henry  III.  of  Valois,  Henry  IV.,  Rosny,  Rambouillet,  Turenne—  are 
brought  in  skillfully,  and  the  tragic  and  varied  history  of  the  time  forms  a  splendid  frame  in 
whicn  tc  set  the  picture  of  Marsac's  love  and  courage  ...  the  troublous  days  are  well 
describee  and  the  interest  is  genuine  and  lasting,  for  up  to  the  very  end  the  author  manages 
effects  which  impel  the  reader  to  go  on  with  renewed  curiosity.'' — The  Nation. 

"A  genuine  and  admirable  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  The  reader  will  not  turn  many  pages 
before  he  finds  himself  in  the  grasp  of  a  writer  who  holds  his  attention  to  the  very  last  mo- 
ment of  the  story.     The  spirit  of  adventure  pervades  th<*  whole  from  beginning  to  end.     .     . 

It  may  be  said  that  the  narration  is  a  delightful  love  story.  The  interest  of  the  reader 
is  constantly  excited  by  the  development  of  unexpected  turns  in  the  relation  of  the  principal 
tovei-s.  Ihe  romance  lies  against  a  background  of  history  trulv  painted.  .  .  .  The 
descriptions  of  the  court  life  of  the  period  and  of  the  factional  strifes!  divisions,  hatreds  of  th? 
age,  are  fine.  .  .  .  This  story  of  those  times  is  worthy  of  a  very  high  place  among  histori- 
cal novels  of  recent  years."— Public  Opinion. 

"  Bold,  strong,  dashing,  it  is  one  of  the  best  we  have  read  for  many  years.  We  sat  dowc 
for  a  cursory  perusal,  and  ended  by  reading  it  delightedly  through.  .  .  .  Mr  Weyman 
has  much  of  the  vigor  and  rush  of  incident  of  Dr.  Conan  Doyle,  and  this  book  ranks  worthily 
beside  1  he  White  Company.'  .  .  .  We  very  cordially  recommend  this  book  to  the  jaded 
novel  reader  who  cares  for  manly  actions  more  than  for  morbid  introspection." 

^  — The  Churchman. 

"The  book  is  not  only  good  literature,  it  is  a  'rattling  good  story,'  instinct  with  the 
spirit  of  true  adventure  and  stirring  emotion.  Of  love  and  peril,  intrigue  and  fighting,  there 
is  plenty,  and  many  scenes  could  not  have  been  bettered.  In  all  his  adventures,  and  they 
are  many,  Marsac  acts  as  befits  his  epoch  and  his  own  modest  yet  gallant  personality.  Well- 
known  historical  figures  emerge  in  telling  fashion  under  Mr.  Weyman's  discriminating  and 
fascinating  touch."— Athen/Eum. 

r  iV  L"*1/10'  fa"CV  any  reader>  old  or  y°unS.  not  sharing  with  doughty  Crillon  his  admiration 
for  M.  de :  Marsac,  who,  though  no  swashbuckler,  has  a  sword  that  leaps  from  its  scabbard  al  the 
breath  .f  insult.  .  .  .  There  are  several  historical  personages  in  the  novel ;  there  is,  oH 
wll7e',a  ^""on16'  of  Steat  beauty  and  enterprise;  but  that  true  'Gentleman  of  France,' 
M.  de  Marsac,  with  his  perseverance  and  valor,  dominates  them  all." 

— Mr.  James  Payn  in  the  Illustrated  London  News. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


UNDER    THE    RED    ROBE. 

A    ROMANCE. 
By   STANLEY   J.  WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF,"  ETC 


With    12  Full-page  Illustrations  by  R.  Caton  Woodville. 
1  2mo,  Linen  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  Mr.  Weyman  is  a  brave  writer,  who  imagines  fine  things  and  describes  them 
splendidly.  There  is  something  to  interest  a  healthy  mind  on  every  page  of  his  new 
story.  Its  interest  never  flags,  for  his  resource  is  rich,  and  it  is,  moreover,  the  kind  of 
a  story  that  one  cannot  plainly  see  the  end  of  from  Chapter  I.  .  .  .  the  story  reveals 
a  knowledge  of  Freuch  character  and  French  landscape  that  was  surely  never  ac- 
quired at  second  hand.  The  beginning  is  wonderfully  interesting." — New  York  Times. 

"  As  perfect  a  novel  of  the  new  school  of  fiction  as  '  Ivanhoe  '  or  '  Henry  Esmond  ' 
was  of  theirs.  Each  later  story  has  shown  a  marked  advance  in  strength  and  treat- 
ment, and  in  the  last  Mr.  Weyman  .  .  .  demonstrates  that  he  has  no  superior 
among  living  novelists.  .  .  .  There  are  but  two  characters  in  the  story — his  art 
makes  all  other  but  unnoticed  shadows  cast  by  them — and  the  attention  is  so  keenly 
fixed  upon  one  or  both,  from  the  first  word  to  the  last,  that  we  live  in  their  thoughts 
and  see  the  drama  unfolded  through  their  eyes." — N.  Y.  World. 

"  It  was  bold  to  take  Richelieu  and  his  time  as  a  subject  and  thus  to  challenge  com- 
parison with  Dumas's  immortal  musketeers  ;  but  the  result  justifies  the  boldness.  .  .  . 
The  plot  is  admirably  clear  and  strong,  the  diction  singularly  concise  and  telling,  and 
the  stirring  events  are  so  managed  as  not  to  degenerate  into  sensationalism.  Few 
better  novels  of  adventure  than  this  have  ever  been  written."— Outlook,  New  York. 

"  A  wonderfully  brilliant  and  thrilling  romance.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  has  a  positive 
talent  for  concise  dramatic  narration.  Every  phrase  tells,  and  the  characters  stana 
out  with  life-like  distinctness.  Some  of  the  most  fascinating  epochs  in  French  history- 
have  been  splendidly  illuminated  by  his  novels,  which  are  to  be  reckoned  among  the 
notable  successes  of  later  nineteenth-century  fiction.  This  story  of '  Under  the  Red 
Robe '  is  in  its  way  one  of  the  very  best  things  he  has  done.  It  is  illustrated  with 
vigor  and  appropriateness  from  twelve  full-page  designs  by  R.  Caton  Woodville." 

— Boston  Beacon. 

"  It  is  a  skillfully  drawn  picture  of  the  times,  drawn  fn  simple  and  transparent 
English,  and  quivering  with  tense  human  feeling  from  the  first  word  to  the  last.  It  is 
not  a  book  that  can  be  laid  down  at  the  middle  of  it.  The  reader  once  caught  in  its 
whirl  can  no  more  escape  from  it  than  a  ship  from  the  maelstrom." 

— Picayune,  New  Orleans. 

"The  'red  robe'  refers  to  Cardinal  Richelieu,  in  whose  day  the  story  is  laid. 
The  descriptions  of  his  court,  his  judicial  machinations  and  ministrations,  his  partial 
defeat,  stand  out  from  the  book  as  vivid  as  flame  against  a  background  of  snow.  For 
the  rest,  the  book  is  clever  and  interesting,  and  overflowing  with  heroic  incident. 
Stanley  Weyman  is  an  author  who  has  apparently  come  to  stay." — Chicago  Post. 

"  In  this  story  Mr.  Weyman  returns  to  the  scene  of  his  '  Gentleman  of  France,' 
although  his  new  heroes  are  of  different  mould.  The  book  is  full  of  adventure  and 
characterized  by  a  deeper  study  of  character  than  its  predecessor." 

— Washington  Post. 

"  Mr.  Weyman  has  quite  topped  his  first  success.  .  .  .  The  author  artfully 
pursues  the  line  on  which  his  happy  initial  venture  was  laid.  We  have  in  Berault,  the 
hero,  a  more  impressive  Marsac ;  an  accomplished  duelist,  telling  the  tale  of  his  owh 
adventures,  he  first  repels  and  finally  attracts  us.  He  is  at  once  the  tool  of  Richelieu, 
and  a  man  of  honor.  Here  is  a  noteworthy  romance,  full  of  thrilling  incident  set  down 
by  a  master-hand." — Philadelphia  Press. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  TIITH  AVE.,  NEW  YOEK. 


THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE. 

By   STANLEY   J.   WEYMAN. 

MAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "  UNDER  THE  RED 
THE  WOLF,"  "MY  LADY  ROTHA,"  ETC. 


With  Four  Illustrations.      Crown  8vo,  $1.25. 


"A  delightfully  told  and  exciting  tale  of  the  troublesome  times  of  Bloody  Mary  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  hero — every  inch  a  hero — was  an  important  actor  in  them." 

— New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  It  is  a  highly  exciting  tale  from  beginning  to  end,  and  very  well  told." 

— New  York  Herald. 

"One  of  the  best  historical  novels  that  we  have  read  for  some  time.  .  .  .  It  is  a 
story  of  the  time  of  Queen  Mary,  and  is  possessed  of  great  dramatic  power.  .  .  .  In  char- 
acter-drawing the  story  is  unexcelled,  and  the  reader  will  follow  the  remarkable  adventures 
of  the  three  fugitives  with  the  most  intense  interest,  which  end  with  the  happy  change  on 
the  accession  of  Elizabeth  to  the  throne." — Home  Journal,   Boston. 

"  The  book  presents  a  good  historical  pen-picture  of  the  most  stirring  period  of  English 
civilization,  and  graphically  describes  scenes  and  incidents  which  undoubtedly  happened. 
The  style  is  plain,  and  the  book  well  worthy  of  careful  perusal. 

"  Humor  and  pathos  are  in  the  pages,  and  many  highly  dramatic  scenes  are  described 
with  the  ability  of  a  master  hand." — Item,  Philadelphia. 

"  Is  worthy  of  careful  reading;  it  Is  a  unique,  powerful,  and  very  interesting  story,  the 
scene  of  which  is  laid  alternately  in  England,  the  Netherlands,  and  the  Rhenish  Palatinate ; 
th*.  times  are  those  of  Bloody  Mary.  Bishop  Gardiner  plays  a  leading  part  in  this  romance, 
which  presents  in  good  shape  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  period." 

— Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  A  romance  of  the  olden  days,  full  of  fire  and  life,  with  touches  here  and  there  of  lova 
and  politics.  .  .  .  We  have  in  this  book  a  genuine  romance  of  Old  England,  in  which 
soldiers,  chancellors,  dukes,  priests,  and  high-born  dames  figure.  The  time  is  the  period  of 
the  war  with  Spain.  Knightly  deeds  abound.  The  story  will  more  than  interest  the  reader; 
it  will  charm  him,  and  he  will  scan  the  notices  of  forthcoming  books  for  another  novel  by 
Weyman." — Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

"  Its  humor,  its  faithful  observance  of  the  old  English  style  of  writing,  and  its  careful 
adherence  to  historic  events  and  localities,  will  recommend  it  to  all  who  are  fond  of  historic 
novels.  The  scenes  are  laid  in  England  and  in  the  Netherlands  in  the  last  four  years  of 
Queen  Mary's  life." — Literary  World,  Boston. 

"  Is  distinguished  by  an  uncommon  display  of  the  inventive  faculty,  a  Dumas-like  ingenu- 
ity in  contriving  dangerous  situations,  and  an  enviable  facility  for  extricating  the  persecuted 
hero  from  the  very  jaws  of  destruction.  The  scene  is  laid  alternately  in  England,  the  Neth- 
erlands, and  the  Rhenish  Palatinate ;  the  times  are  those  of  Bloody  Mary.  Bishop  Gardiner 
plays  a  leading  part  in  this  romance,  which  presents  in  good  shape  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  period.  It  is  useless  dividing  the  story  into  arbitrary  chapters,  for  they  will  not  serve 
to  prevent  the  reader  from  'devouring'  the  '  Story  ot  Francis  Cludde,'  from  the  stormy 
beginning  to  its  peaceful  end  in  the  manor-house  at  Coton  End." 

— Public  Ledger,  Philadelphia. 

"  This  is  certainly  a  commendable  story,  being  full  of  interest  and  told  with  great 
spirit.  .  .  .  It  is  a  capital  book  for  the  young,  and  even  the  less  hardened  nerves  of  the 
middle-aged  will  find  here  no  superfluity  of  gore  or  brutality  to  mar  their  pleasure  in  a 
bright  and  clean  tale  of  prowess  and  adventure." — Nation,  New  York. 

"A  well-told  tale,  with  few,  if  any,  anachronisms,  and  a  credit  to  the  clever  talent  of 
Stanley  J.  Weyman." — Springfield  Republican. 

"  It  is  undeniably  the  best  volume  which  Mr.  Weyman  has  given  us,  both  in  literary 
style  and  unceasing  interest." — Yale  Literary  Magazine. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


MY  LADY  ROTHA. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR. 
By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR  OF    "A   GENTLEMAN   OF   FRANCE,"    "UNDER    THE     RED    ROBE," 
"THE   HOUSE   OF  THE   WOLF." 


With  Eight  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  $1.25. 


"  Few  writers  of  fiction  who  have  appeared  in  England  in  the  last  decade  have  given 
their  readers  more  satisfaction  than  Mr.  Stanley  J.  Wejman,  and  no  single  writer  of  this 
number  can  be  said  to  have  approached  him,  much  less  to  have  equaled  him  in  the  romantic 
world  of  the  historical  novel  ...  he  has  the  art  of  story-telling  in  the  highest  degree, 
the  art  which  instinctively  divines  the  secret,  the  soul  of  the  story  which  he  tells,  and  the 
rarer  art,  if  it  be  not  the  artlessness,  which  makes  it  as  real  and  as  inevitable  as  life  itself. 
His  characters  are  alive,  human,  unforgetable,  resembling  in  this  respect  those  of  Thackeray 
in  historical  lines  and  in  a  measure  those  of  Dumas,  with  whom,  and  not  inaptly,  Mr.  Wey- 
man  has  been  compared.  His  liierature  is  good,  so  good  that  we  accept  it  as  a  matter  of 
course,  as  we  do  that  of  Thackeray  and  Scott.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman's  historical  novels 
will  live." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"...  differs  signally  from  Mr.  Weyman's  earlier  published  works.  It  is  treated 
with  the  minuteness  and  lovingness  of  a  first  story  which  has  grown  up  in  the  mind  of  the 
author  for  years.  .  .  .  Marie  Wort  is  one  of  the  bravest  souls  that  ever  moved  quietly 
along  the  pages  of  a  novel.  She  is  so  unlike  the  other  feminine  characters  whom  Weyman 
has  drawn  that  the  difference  is  striking  and  adds  significance  to  this  one  book.  .  .  . 
•  My  Lady  Rotha  '  is  full  of  fascinating  interest,  all  the  more  remarkable  in  a  work  adhering 
so  strictly  to  historical  truth." — Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

"This  last  book  of  his  is  brimful  of  action,  rushing  forward  with  a  roar,  leaving  the 
reader  breathless  at  the  close ;  for  if  once  begun  there  is  no  stopping  place.  The  concep- 
tion is  unique  and  striking,  and  the  culmination  unexpected.  The  author  is  so  saturated 
with  the  spirit  of  the  times  of  which  he  writes,  that  he  merges  his  personality  ,n  that  of  the 
supposititious  narrator,  and  the  virtues  and  failings  of  his  men  and  w^men  are  set  forth  in  a 
fashion  which  is  captivating  from  its  very  simplicity.     It  is  one  of  his  best  novels." 

— Public  Opinion. 

"Readers  of  Mr.  Weyman's  novels  will  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  his  just  pub- 
lished '  My  Lady  Rotha  '  in  every  way  his  greatest  and  most  artistic  production.  We 
know  of  nothing  more  fit,  both  in  conception  and  execution,  to  be  classed  with  the  immortal 
Waverleys  than  this  his  latest  work.  ...  A  story  true  to  life  and  true  to  the  times 
which  Mr.  Weyman  has  made  such  a  careful  study."    —The  Advertiser,  Boston. 

"  No  one  of  Mr.  Weyman's  books  is  better  than  '  My  Lady  Rotha  '  unless  it  be  '  Under 
the  Red  Robe,'  and  those  who  have  learned  to  like  his  stories  of  the  old  days  when  might 
made  right  will  appreciate  it  thoroughly.     It  is  a  good  book  to  read  and  read  again." 

— New  York  World. 

"...  As  good  a  tale  of  adventure  as  any  one  need  ask  ;  the  picture  of  those  war- 
like times  is  an  excellent  one,  full  of  life  and  color,  the  blare  of  trumpets  and  the  flash  o» 
jteel — and  toward  the  close  the  description  of  the  besieged  city  of  Nuremberg  and  of  the 
battle  und^r  Wallenstein's  entrenchments  is  masterly." — Boston  Traveller. 

"The  loveliest  and  most  admirable  character  in  the  story  is  that  of  a  young  Cathol^.  girl, 
while  in  painting  the  cruelties  and  savage  barbarities  of  war  at  that  period  the  bruch  is  held 
by  an  impartial  hand.  Books  of  adventure  and  romance  are  apt  to  be  cheap  and  sensational' 
Mr.  Weyman's  stories  are  worth  tons  of  such  stuff.  They  are  thrilling,  exciti'.g,  absorbing, 
interesting,  and  yet  clear,  strong,  and  healthy  in  tone,  written  by  a  gentlem?w  and  a  man  of 
sense  and  taste." — Sacred  Heart  Review,  Boston. 

"Mr.  Weyman  has  outdone  himself  in  this  remarkable  book.     .     .     .     The  whole  story- 
is  told  with  consummate  skill.     The  plot  is  artistically  devised  and  enro'ied  before  the  read 
er's  eyes.     The  language  is  simple  and  apt,  and  the  descriptions  are  graphic  and  terse.    The: 
charm  of  the  story  takes  hold  of  the  reader  on  the  very  first  page,  and  nolds  him  spell-bound 
to  the  very  end." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  HTTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


THE  RED  COCKADE. 

A    NOVEL    OF    THE    FRENCH    REVOLUTION. 

By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "  UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE,"  ''  THE  HOUSE  OF 
THE  WOLF,"  "  MY  LADY  ROTHA,"  ETC. 


With   48    Illustrations   by    R.  Caton  Woodville.     Crown   8vo, 
Cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50. 


"Deserves  a  place  among  the  best  historical  fiction  of  the  latter  part  of  this  century.  . 
.  .  The  gradual  maddening  of  the  people  by  agitators,  the  rising  of  those  who  have  re- 
venges to  feed,  the  burnings  and  the  outrages  are  described  in  a  masterly  way.  The  attack 
on  the  castle  of  St.  Alais,  the  hideous  death  of  the  steward,  the  looting  of  the  great  building, 
and  the  escape  of  the  young  lovers— these  incidents  are  told  in  that  breathless  way  which 
Weyman  has  made  familiar  in  other  stories.  It  is  only  when  one  has  finished  the  book  and 
has  gone  back  to  reread  certain  passages  that  the  dramatic  power  and  the  sustained  passion 
of  these  scenes  are  clearly  felt." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  'The  Red  Cockade,'  a  story  of  the  French  Revolution,  shows,  in  the  first  place,  care- 
ful study  and  deliberate,  well-directed  effort.  Mr.  Weyman  .  .  .  has  caught  the  spirit 
of  the  times.  .  .  .  The  book  is  brimful  of  romantic  incidents.  It  absorbs  one's  interest 
from  the  first  page  to  the  last ;  it  depicts  human  character  with  truth,  and  it  causes  the  good 
and  brave  to  triumph.     In  a  word,  it  is  real  romance." — Syracuse  Post. 

"We  have  in  this  novel  a  powerful  but  not  an  exaggerated  study  of  the  spirit  of  the  high 
born  and  the  low  born  which  centuries  of  aristocratic  tyranny  and  democratic  suffering  en- 
gendered  in  France.  It  is  history  which  we  read  here,  and  not  romance,  but  history  which 
is  so  perfectly  written,  so  veritable,  that  it  blends  with  the  romantic  associations  in  which  it 
is  set  as  naturally  as  the  history  in  Shakespeare's  plays  blends  with  the  poetry  which  vital- 
izes and  glorifies  it." — Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"  It  will  be  scarcely  more  than  its  due  to  say  that  this  will  always  rank  among  Weyman's 
best  work.  In  the  troublous  times  of  1789  in  France  its  action  is  laid,  and  with  marvellous 
skill  the  author  has  delineated  the  most  striking  types  of  men  and  women  who  made  the  Rev- 
olution so  terrible." — New  York  World. 

" '  The  Red  Cockade '  is  a  novel  of  events,  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury and  full  of  stirring  romance.  The  tragic  period  of  the  French  Revolution  forms  a  frame 
in  which  to  set  the  adventures  of  Adrien  du  Pont,  Vicomte  de  Saux,  and  the  part  he  plays 
in  those  days  of  peril  has  a  full  measure  of  dramatic  interest.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  has 
evidently  studied  the  history  of  the  revolution  with  a  profound  realization  of  its  intense 
tragedy." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  The  action  of  the  story  is  rapid  and  powerful.  The  Vicomte's  struggle  with  his  own 
prejudices,  his  unhappy  position  in  regard  to  his  friends,  the  perils  he  encounters,  and  the 
great  bravery  he  shows  in  his  devotion  to  Denise  are  strikingly  set  forth,  while  the  historical 
background  is  made  vivid  and  convincing— the  frenzy  caused  by  the  fall  of  the  Bastile,  the 
attacks  of  the  mob,  the  defence  and  strategy  of  the  nobility,  all  being  described  with  dra- 
matic skill  and  verisimilitude.  It  is  a  fascinating  and  absorbing  tale,  which  carries  the  reader 
with  it,  and  impresses  itself  upon  the  mind  as  only  a  novel  of  unusual  merit  and  power 
can  do." — Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  story  gives  a  view  of  the  times  which  is  apart  from  the  usual,  and  marked  with  a 
fine  study  of  history  and  of  human  conditions  and  impulse  on  Mr.  Weyman's  part.  Regard- 
ing his  varied  and  well-chosen  characters  one  cares  only  to  say  that  they  are  full  of  interest 
and  admirably  portraved.  .  .  .  It  is  one  of  the  most  spirited  stories  of  the  hour,  and  one 
of  the  most  delightfully  freighted  with  suggestion."— Chicago  Interior. 

"With  so  striking  a  character  for  his  hero,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  Mr.  Weyman  has 
evolved  a  story  that  for  ingenuity  of  plot  and  felicity  of  treatment  is  equal  to  some  of  his 
best  efforts.  .  .  .  '  The  Red  Cockade '  is  one  of  the  unmistakably  strong  historical  ro- 
mances of  the  season."— Boston  Herald. 

"  We  are  greatly  mistaken  if  the  *  Red  Ceckade '  does  not  take  rank  with  the  very 
best  book  that  Mr.  Weyman  has  written." — Scotsman. 

LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AYE.,  NEW  YOEK. 


SHREWSBURY. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  TIME  OF  WILLIAM  AND  MARY. 

By  STANLEY  J.   WEYMAN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "  UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE,"  "  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE 

WOLF,"  "MY  LADY  KOTHA,"  ETC. 


With  24  Illustrations  by  Claude  A.  Shepperson.    Crown  Svo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.50. 


**  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman  has  written  a  rattling  good  remantic  story  that  is  in  every  way 
worthy  of  the  author  of  the  ever-delightful  '  Gentleman  of  France.'  " — New  York  Sun. 

"  Considered  as  Active  literature,  the  novel  is  an  achievement  worthy  of  high  .  .  _  . 
praise.  The  characters  are  projected  with  admirable  distinctness ;  the  whole  story  and  its 
incidents  are  well  imagined  and  described ;  the  reader,  while  he  cannot  repress  his  contempt 
for  the  supposed  narrator,  is  always  interested  in  the  story,  and  there  is  an  abundance  of 
dramatic  action.  Mr.  Weyman  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  narrative  style  of  the  period 
without  endeavoring,  evidently,  to  adhere  to  the  vocabulary  and  diction,  or  peculiarities  of 
syntax.  .  .  .  Again  we  see  that  Mr.  Weyman  has  no  superior  among  living  writers  of 
romance." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Turning  aside  from  mediaeval  French  scenes,  Stanley  J.  Weyman  takes  up  in  'Shrews- 
bury'  an  English  theme,  and  he  weaves  from  the  warp  and  woof  of  history  and  fancy  a  vivid, 
unique,  close-textured  and  enthralling  romance.  .  .  .  Mr.  Weyman  has  produced  in 
'  Shrewsbury'  a  novel  that  all  admirers  of  his  former  books  will  be  eager  to  read,  and  that 
will  win  for  him  new  suffrages.    The  illustrations  are  drawn  with  skill  and  apDreciation." 

— Beacon,  Boston. 

"  'Shrewsbury'  is  a  magnificent  confirmation  of  Mr.  Weyman's  high  estate  in  the  world 
of  fiction. 

Again  he  has  proved  in  this,  his  latest  novel,  that  the  romantic  treatment  is  capable, 
under  a  masterly  hand,  of  uniting  the  thrill  of  imagination  with  the  dignity  of  real  life.  His 
characters  are  alive,  human,  unforgetable.  His  scenes  are  unhackneyed,  dramatic,  power- 
ful. The  action  is  sustained  and  consistent,  sweeping  one's  interest  along  irresistibly  to  a 
denouement  2\  once  logical  and  climactic.  And  through  it  all  there  glows  that  literary  charm 
which  makes  his  stories  live  even  as  those  of  Scott  and  Dumas  live.     .     .     . 

The  whole  novel  is  a  work  of  genuine  literary  art,  fully  confirming  the  prediction  that 
when  the  author  of  'A  Gentleman  of  France*  once  began  to  deal  with  the  historical  materials 
of  _  his  own  country  he  would  clinch  his  title  to  be  ranked  among  the  greatest  of  romantic 
writers." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"Aside  from  the  story,  which  is  remarkably  well  told,  this  book  is  of  value  for  its  fine 
pen  pictures  of  William  of  Orange  and  his  leading  courtiers— a  story  of  absorbing  interest, 
but  it  differs  materially  from  any  of  his  other  works.  The  best  thing  in  the  book  is  the 
sketch  of  Ferguson,  the  spy,  and  of  the  remarkable  hold  which  he  obtained  over  prominent 
men  by  means  of  his  cunning  and  his  malignancy.  He  dominates  every  scene  in  which  he 
appears.  Some  of  these  scenes  have  rarely  been  excelled  in  historical  fiction  for  intensity  of 
interest.  Those  who  have  not  read  it,  and  who  are  fond  of  the  romance  of  adventure,  wil' 
find  it  fulfils  Mr.  Balfour's  recent  definition  of  the  ideal  novel— something  which  makes  us 
forget  for  the  tune  all  worry  and  care,  and  transports  us  to  another  and  more  picturesque  age." 

— San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  A  most  readable  and  entertaining  story.  .  .  .  Ferguson  and  Smith,  the  plotters, 
the  mothers  of  the  duke  and  Mary  the  courageous,  who  became  the  wife  of  Price,  all  seem 
very  real,  and  with  the  other  characters  and  the  adventures  which  they  go  through  make  up 
an  interest-holding  book  which  can  be  honestly  recommended  to  every  reader  of  fiction." 

—Boston  Times. 

"  A  romance  written  in  the  author's  best  vein.  The  character  drawing  is  particularly 
admirable,  and  Richard  Price,  Ferguson,  King  William  and  Brown  stand  out  in  strong  relief 
and  with  the  most  expressive  vitality.  The  storv  is  also  interesting  and  contains  many 
strong  scenes,  and  one  follows  the  adventures  of  the  various  characters  with  unabated  in- 
terest from  first  page  to  last."— Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 


LONGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YOKE. 


THE    CASTLE    INN. 

A    ROMANCE. 

By  STANLEY   J.  WEYMAN. 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE," 
"SHREWSBURY,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With   six  full-page   Illustrations  by  Walter  Appleton  Clark. 
Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  ornamental,  $  I  .50. 


"  A  tale  which  is  full  of  old-world  romance  and  adventure.  It  has  a  strong  flavor 
of  the  under  life  in  England  when  George  the  Third  was  young,  when  sign-posts 
served  also  as  gibbets,  when  travel  was  by  coach  and  highwaymen  were  many,  when 
men  drank  deep  and  played  high.  There  are  plenty  of  stirring  scenes  along  the  way, 
plenty  of  treachery  and  fighting  at  cross-purposes  which  lead  to  intricate  and  dramatic 
situations.  The  heroine's  charms  recall  Mile,  de  Cocheforet  in  '  Under  the  Red  Robe,' 
and  she  proves  herself  a  maid  of  spirit  through  all  the  mishaps  which  befall  her.  One 
of  the  most  notable  things  about  '  The  Castle  Inn  '  is  the  way  in  which  Mr.  Weyman 
has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  manages  to  imbue  his  readers  with  its  feeling." 

— Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  ....  In  '  The  Castle  Inn,' this  master  of  romance  tells  a  story  of  the  time 
of  George  III.  in  the  third  person.  ...  A  story  of  rapid  action,  with  a  swinging 
succession  of  moving  incidents  that  keep  the  reader  incessantly  on  the  qui  vive.  It 
deals  with  human  emotions  with  directness  and  thoughtfulness." 

— The  Press,  Phila.,  Pa. 

"...  '  The  Castle  Inn  '  .  .  .  is  so  fresh  and  entertaining  that  it  takes  one 
back  to  'A  Gentleman  of  France.'  and  other  good  things  this  author  did  several  years 
ago.  Mr.  Weyman,  in  looking  about  for  an  appropriate  setting  for  his  romance,  very 
wisely  eschews  scenes  and  people  of  to-day,  and  chooses,  instead,  England  a  hundred 
and  thirty  years  ago,  when  George  III.  was  on  her  throne,  and  living  was  a  far  more 
picturesque  business  than  it  is  now.  Beautiful  maidens  could  be  kidnapped  then; 
daring  lovers  faced  pistols  and  swords  in  behalf  of  their  sweethearts,  and  altogether 
the  pace  was  a  lively  one.  Mr.  Weyman  knows  how  to  use  the  attractive  colorings  to 
the  best  advantage  possible."— Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"...  a  piece  of  work  which  is  infinitely  better  than  anything  else  which  he 
has  accomplished.  He  has  treated  the  eighteenth  century,  the  time  of  the  elder  Pitt, 
with  a  grasp  and  a  sympathy  that  presage  a  greater  reputation  for  this  novelist  than 
he  has  enjoyed  hitherto.  The  story  itself  is  worth  the  telling,  but  the  great  thing  is 
the  way  it  is  told." — New  York  Sun. 

"...  he  has  a  firm  grasp  of  his  period  in  this  book,  and  revives  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  last  century  in  England,  with  its  shallow  graces  and  profound  brutality, 
coherently  and  even  with  eloquence  .  .  .  it  is  a  most  interesting  story,  which 
should  please  the  reader  of  romantic  tastes  and  sustain  the  author's  reputation." 

— New  York  Tribune. 

"The  characters  in  the  book  are  all  entertaining,  and  many  of  them  are  droll, 
while  a  few,  like  the  conscientious  Mr.  Fishwick,  the  attorney,  and  the  cringing 
parasite,  Mr.  Thomasson.  are,  in  their  own  way,  masterpieces  of  character  study. 
Take  it  all  in  all,  '  The  Castle  Inn  '  is  in  many  ways  the  best  work  which  has  yet  come 
from  Mr.  Weyman's  pen." — Commercial  Advertiser,  New  York. 

"  Mr.  Weyman  has  surpassed  himself  in  '  The  Castle  Inn.'  From  cover  to  cover 
the  book  teems  with  adventure  and  romance,  and  the  love  episode  is  delicious.  Julia 
will  live  as  one  of  the  most  graceful  heroines  in  the  literature  of  our  time.  .  .  . 
We  get  an  excellent  idea  of  the  doings  of  fashionable  society  in  the  time  when  George 
111.  was  young,  and  altogether  the  volume  can  be  heartily  recommended  as  the  best 
thing  that  Weyman  has  done,  and,  in  the  opinion  of  one,  at  least,  the  most  fascinating 
book  of  the  season." — Home  Journal,  New  York. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO,  91-93  PIFTH  AVE,  NEW  YOEX, 


THE  JEWEL  OF  YNYS  GALON 

BEING  A   HITHERTO   UNPRINTED  CHAPTER   IN 
THE   HISTORY  OF  THE  SEA   ROVERS. 

By  OWEN   RHOSCOMYL. 


With  1  2  Illustrations  by  Lancelot  Speed. 
Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  The  tale  is  exceptionally  well  told  ;  the  descriptive  passages  are  strong  and  viv- 
id without  being  over-elaborated ;  and  the  recital  of  fights  and  adventures  on  sea  and 
land  is  thrilling,  without  leading  to  any  excess  of  horrors.  The  characters  in  the  book 
are  not  all  villians,  but  the  progress  of  the  narrative  is  lighted  up  by  the  ideals  and 
strivings  of  brave  and  honorable  men.  The  book  is  certainly  a  most  attractive  addi- 
tion to  fiction  of  adventure,  for  it  shows  a  fine  degree  of  imagination  on  the  part  of  the 
author.  A  glance  at  the  illustrations  by  Lancelot  Speed  will  alone  be  enough  to  incite 
a  reading  of  the  story  from  beginning  to  end." — The  Beacon,  Boston. 

"  It  is  a  work  of  genius — of  the  romantic-realistic  school.  The  story  is  one  of 
pirates  and  buried  treasure  in  an  island  off  the  coast  of  Wales,  and  so  well  is  it  done 
that  it  fascinates  the  reader,  putting  him  under  an  hypnotic  spell,  lasting  long  after  the 
book  has  been  laid  aside.  It  is  dedicated  to  'every  one  whose  blood  rouses  at  a  tale 
of  tall  rights  and  reckless  adventure,'  to  men  and  boys  alike,  yet  there  will  be  keener 
appreciation  by  the  boys  of  larger  growth,  whose  dreams  'of  buried  treasure  and  of 
one  day  discovering  some  hoard  whereby  to  become  rich  beyond  imagination  '  have 
become  dim  and  blurred  in  the  '  toil  and  struggle  for  subsistence.'  '  The  Jewel  of  Ynys 
Galon'  is  one  of  the  great  books  of  1895  and  will  live  long."— The  World,  New  York. 

"  It  is  a  splendid  story  of  the  sea,  of  battle  and  hidden  treasure.  This  picture  of 
the  times  of  the  sea  rovers  is  most  skillfully  drawn  in  transparent  and  simple  English, 
and  it  holds  from  cover  to  cover  the  absorbed  interest  of  the  reader." 

— Press,  Pi  iladklphia. 

"  It  is  a  story  after  the  heart  of  both  man  and  boy.  There  are  no  d  all  moments  in 
it,  and  we  find  ourselves  impatient  to  get  on,  so  anxious  are  we  to  see  what  the  next 
turn  in  the  events  is  to  bring  forth ;  and  when  we  come  to  the  end  we  exclaim  in 
sorrow,  "  Is  that  all  ?  "  and  begin  to  turn  back  the  leaves  and  re-read  some  of  the  most 
exciting  incidents. 

Owen  Rhoscomyl  has  just  the  talents  for  writing  books  of  this  kind,  and  they  are 
worth  a  dozen  of  some  of  the  books  of  to-day  where  life  flows  sluggishly  on  in  a  draw- 
ing-room.   When  the  author  writes  another  we  want  to  know  of  it." — Times,  Boston. 

"  The  style  of  this  thrilling  story  is  intensely  vivid  and  dramatic,  but  there  is 
nothing  in  it  of  the  cheap  sensational  order.  It  is  worthy  a  place  among  the  classics 
for  boys." — Advertiser,  Boston. 

"  The  present  school  of  romantic  adventure  has  produced  no  more  strikingly  im- 
aginative story  than  this  weird  tale  of  Welsh  pirates  in  the  eighteenth  century.  .  .  . 
A  most  enthralling  tale,  .  .  .  told  with  great  artistic  finish  and  with  intense  spirit. 
It  may  be  recommended  without  reserve  to  every  love'.'  of  this  class  of  fiction." 

— Times,  Philadelphia. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  best  things  of  its  kind  that  have  appeared  in  a  long  time.  .  .  . 
We  do  not  know  how  far  this  tale  may  be  taken  to  be  historical,  and,  to  be  frank, 
we  don't  care.  If  these  things  did  not  happen,  thev  might  have  happened,  and  ought 
to  have  happened,  and  that  is  enough  for  us.  If  you  like  'Treasure  Island'  and 
'  Kidnapped  '  and  the  '  White  Company  '  and  '  Francis  Cludde '  and  '  Lorna  Doone,' 
get  '  The  Jewel  of  Ynys  Galon  '  and  read  it.    You  will  not  be  disappointed." 

— Gazette,  Colorado  Springs,  Col. 

"  Our  own  interest  in  the  book  led  us  to  read  it  at  a  sitting  that  went  far  into  the 
night.  The  old  Berserker  spirit  is  considerably  abroad  in  these  pages,  and  the  blood 
coursed  the  faster  as  stirring  incident  followed  desperate  situation  and  daring  enter- 
prise."— Literary  World,  London. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIETH  AVE.,  NEW  YOKE. 


BATTLEMENT  AND  TOWER. 

A    ROMANCE. 

By  OWEN  RHOSCOMYL, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  JEWEL  OF  YNYS  GALON." 


With    Frontispiece    by   R.    Caton   Woodville.      12mo,   Cloth, 

Ornamental,  ^  1 .25. 


"  It  is  a  rare  tale  of  the  wars  of  the  Commonwealth.  The  hero,  Howel,  is  a  young 
Welsh  lord  whose  father  gives  him  his  hereditary  sword  and  shield,  and  sends  him  to 
battle  for  the  king.  His  adventures  in  love  and  war  are  intensely  fascinating,  and  the 
reader  puts  down  the  book  with  extreme  reluctance.  The  author  has  carefully  studied 
the  history  of  the  times,  and,  besides  being  a  thrilling  tale,  his  story  is  a  charming 
picture  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  day.    It  is  a  book  well  worth  reading." 

— New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"...  a  powerful  romance  by  Owen  Rhoscomyl  of  the  swashbuckling  days  in 
North  Wales,  when  the  Roundheads  warred  against  the  Cavaliers,  and  Charles  I.  oi 
England  lost  his  head,  both  metaphorically  and  literally.  .  .  .  The  picturesque 
and  virile  style  of  the  author,  and  the  remarkable  power  he  displays  in  his  character 
drawing,  place  his  book  among  the  notable  pieces  of  fiction  of  the  year.  There  is 
plenty  of  fighting,  hard  riding,  love-making,  and  blood-letting  in  the  story,  but  the 
literary  touch  given  to  his  work  by  the  author  places  his  product  far  above  the  average 
of  the  many  tales  of  like  character  that  are  now  striving  to  satisfy  the  present  demand 
for  fiction  that  has  power  without  prurience." — World,  New  York. 

"  There  is  a  vein  of  very  pretty  romance  which  runs  through  the  more  stirring 
scenes  of  battle  and  of  siege.  The  novel  is  certainly  to  be  widely  read  by  those  who 
love  the  tale  of  a  well-fought  battle  and  of  gallant  youth  in  the  days  when  men  carved 
their  way  to  fame  and  fortune  with  a  sword." — Advertiser,  Boston. 


FOR  THE  WHITE  ROSE  OF  ARNO. 

A  Story  of  the  Jacobite  Rising  of  1  74-5. 

By  OWEN  RHOSCOMYL. 

Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 

"Owen  Rhoscomyl  has  already  written  some  rare  stories  of  the  wars  of  the  Com- 
monwealth that  have  met  with  a  splendid  showing  of  practical  appreciation  by  a 
world-wide  circle  of  readers.  This  latest  novel  by  the  pleasing  Welsh  writer  is  one  of 
the  most  powerful  romances  that  have  emanated  from  his  pen,  and  will  doubtless  re- 
ceive as  graceful  a  welcome  to  fiction  literature  as  his  previous  efforts  have  done.  It 
is  a  stirring  story  of  Wales  when  the  Roundheads  were  warring  against  the  cavaliers, 
and  Charles  I  of  England  lost  his  head  and  his  coveted  throne.  The  story  is  brimful 
of  fighting,  of  hard  travel  and  riding,  and  old-time  love  making,  and  the  flavor  of  old 
world  chivalry  in  the  tenderer  portions  of  the  novel  is  charming  and  complete.  With 
the  pen  of  a  realist,  the  author  hurries  his  readers  back  to  live  over  the  dead,  old  wars, 
to  dwell  in  strange  Welsh  castles  that  long  ago  crumbled  into  dust,  and  to  view  the 
history  and  romances  of  those  early  days  as  something  tangible  with  our  own  exist- 
ences. The  style  is  always  active,  virile  and  picturesque,  and  there  is  not  a  dull  or 
tame  chapter  in  the  book." — Courier,  Boston. 

"The  story  is  told  with  spirit,  and  holds  the  attention  without  effort.  The  action 
is  swift,  the  episodes  stirring,  the  character  drawing  admirable,  and  the  style  good. 
The  ultimate  defeat  of  the  Pretender,  and  the  final  denouement  are  tragic  in  their 
intensity,  and  powerfully  pictured."— Brooklyn  Times. 

"  This  is  a  really  stirring  story,  full  of  wild  adventure,  yet  having  an  atmosphere 
of  histor'c  truthfulness,  and  conveying  incidentally  a  good  deal  of  information  that  is 
evidently  based  upon  fresh  study." — Times,  Philadelphia. 


LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK. 


FLOTSAM. 

THE    STUDY    OF   A    LIFE. 

By  HENRY  SETON   MERRIMAN, 

AUTHOR     OF     "WITH     EDGED     TOOLS,"     "THE     SOWERS,"     ETC. 

With    Frontispiece   and   Vignette    by    H.   G.    MASSEY. 
1  2mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  The  scene  of  this  thoroughly  interesting  book  is  laid  at  the  time  of  the  great 
Indian  mutiny  of  1857,  and  the  chapters  devoted  to  that  terrible  episode  in  the  history 
of  English  rule  in  India  are  among  the  most  interesting  in  the  volume,  the  capture  of 
Delhi  in  particular  being  graphically  described." — Herald,  Oneonta,  N.  Y. 

"  It  is  a  powerful  study." — Cincinnati  Commercial  Gazette. 

"  One  of  the  strongest  novels  of  the  season." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"It  is  decidedly  a  novel  worth  reading." — New  England  Magazine. 

"...  From  first  to  last  our  interest  in  the  dramatic  development  of  the  plot  is 
never  allowed  to  flag.  '  Flotsam  '  will  amply  sustain  the  reputation  which  Mr. 
Merriman  has  won." — Charleston  News  and  Courier. 

"  It  is  a  rather  stirring  story,  dealing  with  breezy  adventures  in  the  far  East,  and 
sketching  in  strong  outlines  some  very  engaging  phases  of  romance  in  India  not  down 
in  Mr.  Kipling's  note-books." — Independent,  New  York. 

"  It  is  a  novel  of  strong,  direct,  earnest  purpose,  which  begins  well  in  a  literary 
sense  and  ends  better." — Sun,  Baltimore. 

"  A  brilliant  gift  for  characterization  and  dramatic  effect  put  his  novels  among 
the  best  of  the  season  for  entertainment,  and,  to  no  small  extent,  for  instruction." 

—Dial,  Chicago. 

"  Mr.  Merriman  can  write  a  good  story  ;  he  proved  that  in  '  The  Sowers,'  and  he 
shows  it  anew  in  this.  .  .  .  The  story  is  a  strong  one  and  told  with  freshness  and 
simple  realism."— Current  Literature,  New  York. 

"  His  story  is  remarkably  well  told." — Herald,  Columbia,  Mo. 

"  It  is  a  novel  written  with  a  purpose,  yet  it  is  entirely  free  from  preaching  or 
moralizing.  The  young  man,  Harry  Wylam,  whose  career  from  childhood  to  the 
prime  of  manhood  is  described,  is  a  bright,  daring,  and  lovable  character,  who  starts 
with  every  promise  of  a  successful  life,  but  whose  weakness  of  will,  and  love  of 
pleasure,  wreck  his  bright  hopes  midway.  The  author  shows  unusual  skill  in  dealing 
with  a  subject  which  in  less  discreet  hands  might  have  been  an  excuse  for  motbidity." 

— Boston  Eeacon. 

"  A  story  of  lively  and  romantic  incident.  .  .  .  His  story  is  remarkably  well 
told."— New  York  Sun. 

"  The  story  is  full  of  vigorous  action     .     .     .    and  interesting." 

— PuBf.j?-  Opinion. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIITH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK. 


THE    ARCHDEACON, 

A   STORY. 

By  Mrs.   L.   B.  WALFORD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BABY'S  GRANDMOTHER,"  "  LEDDY  MARGET,"  ETC.,  ETC 


Crown  8vo,  Buckram  Cloth,  $1.50. 


"  '  The  Archdeacon  *  is  a  keen,  wise,  charmingly  told  story  of  character,  conduct, 
and  love.  .  .  .  We  won't  anticipate  our  reader's  pleasure  by  setting  forth  the 
denouement.    It  is  enough  to  say  that  it  is  delightful." — New  York  Tribune. 

"It  is  such  a  pleasing  narrative  that  it  holds  the  reader's  attention  from  beginning 
to  end.  .  .  .  It  is  a  healthy,  wholesome  and  pleasing  story,  withou;  'problems' 
and  free  from  mawkish  sentimentality."— Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

*' The  story  is  in  every  way  to  be  commended  as  a  healthful,  wholesome  tale  of 
modern  English  life.   An  easy,  natural  atmosphere  pervades  the  whole  of  it." 

—Transcript,  Boston. 

"  One  of  the  pleasant  English  stories,  always  sweet  and  pure,  and  full  of  heart 
interest,  that  Mrs.  Walford  knows  so  well  how  to  write.  In  this  one  the  hero  is  a 
brilliant  young  churchman  who  rises  high  in  his  profession,  but  grows  worldly  and 
cold,  and  loses  sight  of  the  high  ideals  with  which  he  set  out.  Love  for  a  women  who 
is  strong  enough  to  point  out  his  failings  to  him,  finally  restores  him  to  the  simple 
faith  of  his  youth." — Picayune,  New  Orleans. 

"'  A  well-received  and  well-written  novel." — Plain  Dealer,  Cleveland,  Ohio. 


LEDDY    MARGET. 

By  Mrs.  L.  B.  WALFORD. 


Crown    8vo,    Buckram    Cloth,    $1,50. 


"  '  Leddy  Marget '  is  a  pathetic,  graceful,  amusing  and  winning  book,  and  it  will 
linger  in  the  memory  when  much  of  the  more  pretentious  fiction  of  its  day  is  for- 
gotten."—New  York  Tribune. 

"  Not  only  charming  for  its  simplicity  and  directness,  but  is  significant  for  the 
qualities  which  differentiate  it  from  the  stories  of  the  majority  of  this  lady's  sisterhood. 
.  .  .  Individual  and  sincere,  gracious  and  courteous,  there  never  was  a  more  lovable 
old  gentlewoman  than  Leddy  Marget."— Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"  There  is  little  that  can  be  said  about  this  story ;  it  must  be  read,  for  its  charm 
cannot  be  reflected  in  a  review,  its  delicate  atmosphere  cannot  be  reproduced.  .  .  . 
Therefore  we  wish  to  advise  our  readers  to  give  an  hour  to  this  delightful  trifle  ;  and 
when  thev  have  done  so  they  will  agree  with  us,  and  we  hope,  be  duly  grateful — to 
Mrs.  Walford  for  creating  Lady  Marget,  and  to  us  for  introducing  them  to  her." 

— Critic,  New  York. 

*'  Altogether  this  is  a  delightfully  satisfying  book.  We  hope  it  may  be  widely 
read."— Living  Church,  Chicago. 

"  Although  Mrs.  Walford  has  written  many  novels  of  wider  plan,  she  has  written 
nothing  sweater"— Public  Opinion,  New  York. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  GO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE..  NEW  YORK. 


WAYFARING    MEN 

By    EDNA   LYALL, 

AUTHOR   OF    "DONOVAN,"    *' WE   TWO,"    "DOREEN,"    ETC 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50. 


"...  We  take  up  Edna  Lyall's  last  novel  .  .  .  with  high  expectations,  and 
we  are  not  disappointed.  Miss  Bayly  has  acquired  a  wonderful  insight  into  human  nature, 
and  this  last  production  of  her  pen  is  full  of  the  true  portrayals  of  life.  .  .  .  The  whole 
book  is  a  whiff  of  '  caller  air  '  in  these  days  of  degenerate  fiction." 

— Commercial  Advertiser,  New  York. 

"  One  of  her  best  stories.  It  has  all  the  qualities  which  have  won  her  popularity  in  the 
past." — Sentinel,  Milwaukee. 

"A  well- written  and  vigorous  story." — Observer,  New  York. 

"  It  is  a  strong  story,  thoroughly  well  constructed,  .  .  .  with  the  characters  very 
skilfully  handled.  .  .  .  Altogether  the  story  is  far  above  the  ordinary,  and  bids  fair  to 
be  one  of  the  most  successful  of  the  opening  season." — Commercial,   Buffalo. 

"  Edna  Lyall  .  .  .  has  added  another  excellent  volume  to  the  number  of  her  ro- 
mances. .  .  .  It  sustains  the  reputation  of  the  author  for  vigorous  writing  and  graceful 
depicting  of  life,  both  in  the  peasant's  cabin  and  the  noble's  hall.'" 

— Observer,  Utica,  New  York. 

"  Miss  Lyall's  novel  is  one  of  unflagging  interest,  written  in  that  clear,  virile  style,  with 
its  gentle  humor  and  dramatic  effectiveness,  that  readers  well  know  and  appreciate.  .  .  . 
On  many  pages  of  the  story  the  writer  reveals  her  sympathetic  admiration  for  Ireland  and 
the  Irish.  '  Wayfaring  Men  '  is  a  literary  tonic  to  be  warmly  welcomed  and  cheerfully  com- 
mended as  an  antidote  to  much  of  the  unhealthy,  morbid,  and  enervating  fiction  of  the  day." 

— Press,  Philadelphia. 

"  The  author  has  made  a  pretty  and  interesting  love-story,  ...  a  truthful  picture  of 
modern  stage  life,  and  a  thoroughly  human  story  that  holds  the  interest  to  the  end." 

— Tribune,  Chicago. 

"  It  is  a  story  that  you  will  enjoy,  because  it  does  not  start  out  to  reform  the  world  in  less 
than  five  hundred  pages,  only  to  wind  up  by  being  suppressed  by  the  government.  It  is  a 
bright  story  of  modern  life,  and  it  will  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  delighted  in  '  Donovan,' 
'  We  Two,'  and  other  books  by  this  author."— Cincinnati  Tribune. 

"A  new  book  by  Edna  Lyall  is  sure  of  a  hearty  welcome.  'Wayfaring  Men'  will  not 
disappoint  any  of  her  admirers.  It  has  many  of  the  characteristics  of  her  earlier  and  still 
popular  books.  It  is  a  story  of  theatrical  life,  with  which  the  author  shows  an  unusually 
extensive  and  sympathetic  acquaintance." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"Characterized  by  the  same  charming  simplicity  of  style  and  realism  that  won  for 
'  Donovan' and  '  Knight  Errant '  their  popularity.  .  .  .  Miss  Lyall  has  made  no  attempt 
to  create  dramatic  situations,  though  it  is  so  largely  a  tale  of  stage  life,  but  has  dealt  with 
the  trials  and  struggles  of  an  actor's  career  with  an  insight  and  delicacy  that  are  truly  pleas- 
ing."— The  Argonaut,  San  Francisco. 

"  Is  a  straightforward,  interesting  story,  in  which  people  and  things  theatrical  have 
much  to  do.  The  hero  is  an  actor,  young  and  good,  and  the  heroine— as  Miss  Lyall's  hero- 
ines are  sure  to  be — is  a  real  woman,  winning  and  lovable.  There  is  enough  excitement  in 
the  book  to  please  romance-lovers,  and  there  are  no  problems  to  vex  the  souls  of  those  who 
love  a  story  for  the  story's  sake.  It  will  not  disappoint  the  large  number  of  persons  who 
lave  learned  to  look  forward  with  impatient  expectation  to  the  publication  of  Miss  Lyall's 
"next  novel.'     '  Wayfaring  Men'  is  sure  of  a  wide  and  a  satisfied  reading." 

— Womankind,  Springfield,  Ohio. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO,,  91-93  FIETH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


HOPE    THE    HERMIT 

A  ROMANCE  OF  BORROWDALE. 
By  EDNA  LYALL, 

AUTHOR   OF    "  DOREHN,"  "WAYFARING   MEN,"  ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1  .50. 


"When  Edna  Lyall  wrote  this  book  she  stepped  into  the  front  rank  of  living  novelists. 
It  exemplifies  the  finest  type  of  historical  romance,  which  is,  of  course,  the  highest  form  of 
fictious  literature.  The  scene  of  the  story  is  one  of  the  loveliest  which  could  have  been 
chosen,  the  lake  region  of  England.  .  .  .  Her  story  is  full  of  life  and  incident,  and  at 
the  same  time  conveys  lessons  of  high  morality.  .  .  .  Altogether  this  is  one  of  the 
healthiest,  purest,  best,  and  most  powerful  romances  in  the  whole  range  of  English 
literature." — Living  Church,  Chicago. 

"Miss  Bayly  .  .  .  by  careful  examination  of  her  authorities  has  been  able  to  con- 
struct an  uncommonly  good  romance  of  the  days  when  brother's  hand  was  against  brother. 
It  is  distinctly  good  work — a  stirring  story  and  in  every  way  creditable  to  the  author." 

— Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

"The  characters  are  well  drawn,  never  mere  puppets.  There  is  a  coherent,  well- 
thought-out,  and  carefully  developed  plot,  and  the  style  is  clear  and  straightforward.  The 
story  is  wholesome  and  interesting,  and  much  better  worth  reading  than  a  good  many  of 
the  so-called  'stories  of  adventure.'  " — Beacon,  Boston. 

"  There  are  few  novelists  of  the  present  day  whose  writings  are  better  known  and  liked 
than  those  of  Edna  Lyall.  They  are  always  clean,  pure  and  wholesome,  and  delightful  read- 
ing. The  latest,  '  Hope  the  Hermit,'  deals  with  her  favorite  period,  the  seventeenth  century. 
We  have  the  revolution,  the  accession  of  William  and  Mary,  and  the  Jacobite  plots,  and 
among  the  real  characters  introduced  are  Archbishop  Tillotson,  Lady  Temple  and  George 
Fox,  the  Quaker.  .  .  .  The  story  ends  as  all  love  stories  should,  to  be  perfectly  satisfactory 
to  the  average  novel  reader,  and  '  Hope  the  Hermit '  will  find  many  readers,  who  are  fond 
of  a  good  story  well  told." — Advertiser,  Portland,  Me. 

"  She  is  quite  at  home  with  her  theme.  .  .  .  It  is  a  fine  historical  novel,  admirably 
written,  and  one  of  her  best  books." — Literary  World,  Boston. 

"...  is  one  of  those  delightful  stories  that  have  made  the  author  very  popular 
and  that  one  can  take  up  with  the  absolute  certainty  of  finding  nothing  unclean  or  repel- 
lent. It  is  a  clear,  strong,  well-designed,  refreshing  story,  based  upon  scenes  and  events 
in  the  days  of  William  and  Mary  of  England — days  when  a  man  could  hardly  trust  his  own 
brother,  and  when  sons  were  on  one  side  in  a  rebellion,  and  the  father  on  the  other.  .  .  . 
Many  of  the  situations  are  very  exciting,  the  characters  are  admirably  drawn,  and  the  whole 
telling  of  the  story  is  entertaining,  grateful  and  artistic.  We  regard  it  as  quite  as  good  as 
'Donovan,'  and  the  other  popular  stories  by  the  same  author." — Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  Miss  Bayly  has  kept  her  pages  clean  and  white.  The  book  is  preeminently  suitable 
to  the  shelves  of  a  circulating  library,  as  well  as  to  the  reading-table  under  the  family  lamp. 
It  not  only  entertains,  but  gives  historical  data  in  a  pleasantly  impressive  manner  .  .  . 
we  have,  notwithstanding  a  few  extravagances,  a  very  fascinating  story,  enlivened  by  the 
admitted  license  of  the  writer  of  romance." — Home  Journal,  New  York. 

"  This  latest  work  of  Miss  Bayly  has  all  the  qualities  which  have  won  her  popularity  in 
the  past.  The  book  should  have  a  considerable  vogue,  appealing,  as  it  does,  not  only  to 
those  who  like  quick  action,  plenty  of  adventure,  and  much  picturesqueness,  but  also  to 
those  who  have  a  cultivated  literary  palate." — Dispatch,  Richmond,  Va. 

.     .     .     is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of  Edna  Lyall's  talent  for  telling  a  good  story 

in  engaging  style The  reader's  attention  is  held  throughout." 

— Press,  Philadelphia. 
"  There  is  much  in  this  book  to  commend  it.  It  is  original  and  has  great  activity. 
.  .  .  Miss  Lyall  possesses  literary  talent,  and  her  style  is  clear,  and,  to  one  unfamiliar 
with  her  writings,  this  latest  production  will  be  a  delightful  treat.  The  reader  will  put  it 
di  iwn  delighted  with  the  story,  refreshed  by  the  study  of  the  merits  and  faults  of  its  charac- 
ters, and  cogitating  upon  the  great  events  which,  during  the  making  of  English  history, 
followed  quickly  one  upon  another  toward  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century." 

— Picayune,  New  Orleans. 


LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE,  NEW  YOEK. 


JOAN   HASTE. 


A  NOVEL. 
By  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SHE,"  "  HEART  OF  THE  WORLD,''  "  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  MIST,"  ETC.,  ETC 


With  20  full-page   Illustrations  by  F.  S.  Wilson. 
12mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 


"  It  is  less  adventurous  in  theme,  the  tone  is  more  quiet,  and  the  manner  more 
in  keeping  with  the  so-called  realistic  order  of  fiction  than  anything  Mr.  Haggard  has 
heretofore  published.  '  Joan  Haste  '  is  by  far  the  most  earnest,  and  in  many  ways  the 
most  impressive  work  of  Mr.  Haggard's  that  has  yet  been  printed.  The  insight  into 
character  which  it  displays  is  almost  invariably  keen  and  lrue.  Every  personality  in 
the  story  is  fully  alive,  and  individual  traits  of  thought  and  action  are  revealed  little 
by  little  as  the  narrative  progresses,  until  they  stand  forth  as  definite  and  consistent 
creations." — The  Boston  Beacon. 

"  All  the  strong  and  striking  peculiarities  that  have  made  Mr.  Haggard's  earlier 
works  so  deservedly  popular  are  repeated  here  in  a  new  spirit.  Not  only  that,  but 
his  literary  execution  shows  an  enlarged  skill  and  betrays  the  master-hand  of  self- 
restraint  that  indicate  maturity  of  power.  His  conception  of  character  is  improved  by 
the  elimination  of  all  crudeness  and  haste,  and  his  delineations  are  consequently  closer 
to  life.  One  is  reminded  strongly  of  Dickens  in  his  admirable  drawing  of  minor  char- 
acters. Mrs.  Uird  is  such  a  character.  .  .  .  The  illustrations  of  the  book  are  nu- 
merous and  strikingly  good.  Many  of  the  scenes  are  intensely  dramatic,  and  move  the 
feelings  to  the  higher  pitch.  .  .  .  Even  in  the  little  concerns  of  the  story  the  wealth 
ot  its  imagination  appears,  glowing  in  the  warmth  of  its  unstinted  creations.  There  is 
a  splendor  in  his  description,  a  weird  spirit  in  his  imagery,  a  marvelous  variety  of 
detail,  and  at  all  points  a  creative  force  that  give  a  perpetual  freshness  and  newness  to 
the  fiction  to  which  he  gives  his  powers.  To  take  up  one  of  his  fascinating  books  is 
to  finish  it,  and  this  story  of  '  Joan  Haste  '  is  not  to  be  outdone  by  the  best  of  them  all. 
The  strength,  emphasis,  and  vigor  of  his  style  as  well  as  of  his  treatment  is  to  be 
credited  to  none  but  superior  gifts  and  powers.  .  .  .  '  Joan  Haste '  will  become 
the  favorite  of  everybody."— Boston  Courier. 

"  Mr.  Haggard's  new  story  is  a  sound  and  pleasing  example  of  modern  English 
fiction  ...  a  book  worth  reading.  ...  Its  personages  are  many  and  well 
contrasted,  and  all  reasonably  human  and  interesting." — New  York  Times. 

"In  this  pretty,  pathetic  story  Mr.  Haggard  has  lost  none  of  his  true  art.  .  .  . 
In  every  respect  'Joan  Haste'  contains  masterly  literary  work  of  which  Mr.  Haggard 
has  been  deemed  incapable  by  some  of  his  former  critics.  Certainly  no  one  will  call 
his  latest  book  weak  or  uninteresting,  while  thousands  who  enjoy  a  well-told  story  of 
tragic,  but  true  love,  will  pronounce  'Joan  Haste'  a  better  piece  of  work  than  Mr. 
Haggard's  stories  of  adventure." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"  This  story  is  full  of  startling  incidents.     It  is  intensely  interesting." 

—Cleveland  Gazette. 

"  The  plot  thickens  with  the  growth  of  the  story,  which  is  one  of  uncommon  interest 
and  pathos.     The  book  has  the  advantage  of  the  original  illustrations." 

— Cleveland  World. 

"'Joan  Haste'  is  really  a  good  deal  more  than  the  ordinary  novel  of  English 
country  life.  It  is  the  best  thing  Haggard  has  done.  There  is  some  character  sketch- 
ing in  it  that  is  equal  to  anything  of  this  kind  we  have  had  recently." 

—Courier,  Lincoln,  Neb. 

"  In  this  unwonted  field  he  has  done  well.  'Joan  Haste  '  is  so  far  ahead  of  his  for- 
mer works  that  it  will  surprise  even  those  who  have  had  most  confidence  in  his  ability. 

To  those  who  read  Thomas  Hardy's  '  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  '  the  atmosphere 
and  incidents  of  'Joan  Haste'  will  seem  familiar.  It  is  written  along  much  the  same 
lines,  and  in  this  particular  it  might  be  accused  of  a  lack  of  originality ;  but  Haggard 
harcome  dangerously  close  to  beating  Hardy  in  his  own  field.  Hardy's  coarseness  is 
missing,  but  Hardy's  power  is  excelled." — Munsey's  Magazine. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO..  91-93  PUTS  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK. 


THE    WIZARD. 

By  H.  RIDER   HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SHE,"   "  KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES,"  "  JOAN  HASTE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  19  full-page  Illustrations  by  Charles  Kern 
Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1.25. 

"  I  owe  an  exciting,  delightful  evening  once  more  to  a  pen — say  a  voice — which 
has  held  me  a  willing  prisoner  in  a  grasp  of  iron.  It  is  now  ten  years  ago,  I  think, 
since  I  gave  Mr.  Rider  Haggard  my  opinion  that  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  would  have 
'She'  always  with  him  to  be  compared  with  what  might  follow.  That  incomparab/e 
romance,  indeed,  has  never  been  surpassed  by  any  living  writer.  Rider  Haggard  is 
the  possessor  of  an  imagination  stronger,  more  vivid,  more  audacious  than  is  found  in 
any  other  writer  of  the  time.  I  say  this  in  order  to  introduce  his  latest  work,  '  The 
Wizard.'  It  is  only  a  short  tale— too  short — but  it  shows  imaginative  power  that  makes 
it  worthy  to  follow  after  '  She.'  "—Sir  Walter  Besant,  in  "  The  Queen." 

"  The  scene  of  this  thrilling  story  is  laid  in  Africa,  but  in  many  respects  it  is  a  new 
departure  for  the  writer.  .  .  .  has  never  written  anything  more  pathetic  or  with 
greater  force  than  this  tale  of  a  missionary  venture  and  a  martyr's  death.  The  '  Pass- 
ing Over  '  is  told  with  a  simple  beauty  of  language  which  recalls  the  last  passages  in 
the  life  of  the  martyred  Bishop  Hannington.  As  for  the  improbabilities,  well,  they  are 
cleverly  told,  and  we  are  not  afraid  to  say  that  we  rather  like  them  ;  but  Haggard  has 
never  achieved  a  conception  so  beautiful  as  that  of  Owen,  or  one  that  he  has  clothed 
with  so  great  a  semblance  of  life."— Pacific  Churchman,  San  Francisco. 

"  '  The  Wizard  '  is  one  of  his  most  vivid  and  brilliant  tales.  Mitacles  are  no  new 
things  in  the  frame-work  used  by  the  writers  of  fiction,  but  no  one  has  attempted  just 
the  use  of  them  which  Haggard  makes  in  this  novel.  It  is  so  entirely  new,  so  abso- 
lutely in  line  with  the  expressed  beliefs  of  devout  folk  everywhere,  that  it  ought  to 
strike  a  responsive  chord  in  the  popular  heart  as  did  '  Ben  Hu'r,'  and  should  be  equally 
successful."— Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

"  Mr.  Haggard  gives  full  play  in  the  history  of  the  conversion  of  the  Son  of  Fire 
to  his  strong  imagination,  and  he  has  succeeded  admirably  in  conveying  an  earnest 
religious  lesson,  while  telling  one  of  his  most  exciting  and  entertaining  stories." 

— Beacon,  Boston. 

"It  is  to  be  read  at  one  sitting,  without  resisting  that  fascination  which  draws  you 
on  from  one  to  another  critical  moment  of  the  story,  to  resolve  some  harrowing  doubt 
or  dilemma.  .  .  .  Hokosa,  the  wizard,  whose  art  proved  at  first  so  nearly  fatal  to 
the  messenger's  cause,  and  whose  devilish  plots  resulted  finally  in  conversion  and 
Christianity,  is  one  of  Mr.  Haggard's  best  creations.  The  portrait  has  a  vigor  and 
picturesqueness  comparable  to  that  of  Allan  Quatermain.'  " 

— Picayune,  New  Orleans. 

'  It  has  all  the  spirit  and  movement  of  this  popular  author's  finest  work." 

—Evening  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 

"  A  brilliant  story  truly,  and  here  and  there  alive  with  enthusiasm  and  fire.  Mr* 
Haggard  describes  savage  combats  with  rare  skill,  and,  somehow,  we  revel  with  him 
when  he  shows  us  legion  after  legion  of  untamed  children  of  nature  fighting  to  the  grim 
death  with  uncouth  weapons  yet  with  as  dauntless  a  courage  as  the  best  trained  soldiers 
of  Europe.  It  may  be  wrong  for  him  to  stir  up  our  savage  instincts,  but,  after  all,  £ 
healthy  animalism  is  not  to  be  scoffed  at  in  any  breed  of  men."— New  York  Herald. 

"  Is  as  full  of  adventure  as  the  most  ardent  admirer  of  tales  of  courage  and  daring 
could  desire.  As  its  title  implies,  it  portrays  a  character  who  is  an  adept  in  witch- 
craft, cunning,  and  knowledge  of  human  nature.  There  is  a  distinct  religious  element 
throughout  the  book  ;  indeed,  but  for  its  religious  motive  there  would  be  no  story." 

— St.  Louis  Republican. 


LONGMANS,  GKEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


SWALLOW. 

A  STORY  OF  THE  GREAT  TREK. 

By  H.   RIDER  HAGGARD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SHE,"  "  KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES,"    "  JOAN  HASTE,"  "THE   WIZARD,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  12  full-page  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  SI. 50 

"  The  hand  of  the  author  of  '  She  '  has  not  lost  its  cunning'.  Indeed,  we  think  it 
will  be  the  verdict  of  most  readers  of  'Swallow  '  that,  great  as  Conan  Doyle  and 
Stanley  Weyman  are  in  the  field  of  romance,  in  the  art  of  sheer,  unadulterated  story- 
telling, Rider  Haggard  is  the  master  of  them  all.  'Swallow1  is  an  African  story,  a 
tale  of  the  Boers  and  Kaffirs  and  Zulus,  and  it  grips  the  attention  of  the  reader  from 
the  very  beginning  and  holds  it  steadily  to  the  end.  The  tale  is  told  by  an  old  Boer 
woman,  '  the  Vrouw  Botmar,'  and  it  is  a  masterpiece  of  narration.  .  .  .  The  finest 
portrait  of  all  is  that  of  the  little  Kaffir  witch  doctoress,  Sihamba,  who  will  live  in  the 
reader's  memory  long  after  he  has  closed  the  book,  and  who  is  a  worthy  companion  of 
the  great  Umslopogaas  himself.    Altogether  '  Swallow '  is  a  remarkable  romance." 

— Charleston  News. 

"  It  is  a  slashing,  dashing  .  .  .  romance  of  Boers  and  Kaffirs  in  South  Africa  that 
Rider  Haggard  has  given  his  admirers  under  the  title,  '  Swallow.'  The  title  is  the  Kaffir 
name  for  the  charming  Boer  maiden.  Suzanne   Botmar.     .     .  'Swallow'  is  one  of 

those  utterly  impossible  and  yet  altogether  engrossing  tales  that  Rider  Haggard  knows 
so  well  how  to  weave.  He  is  always  at  best  among  the  kloofs  and  kopjes  of  South 
Africa,  and  his  many  admirers  will  be  delighted  to  know  that  he  has  returned  to  the 
field  of  his  early  successes."— Chicago  Tribune. 

"The  Englishman's  long  pursuit  of  his  bride  ;  the  manner  in  which  she  escaped 
from  Swart  Piet  only  to  encounter  as  great  perils  in  her  wanderings,  and  how  she 
dwelt  among  savages  for  two  years,  with  Sihamba,  the  little  witch  doctoress  and  ruler 
of  the  Tribe  of  the  Mountains,  gives  Mr.  Haggard  ample  opportunity  to  display  his 
ingenuity  as  a  plot-maker,  and  illustrates  his  wonderful  powers  of  dramatic  narration. 
The  story  is  crowded  with  incident  leading  up  to  the  u agic  encounter  on  the  cliff 
between  Ralph  and  Swart  Piet  and  the  torture  and  death  of  Sihamba.  Lovers  of  the 
wild  and  adventurous,  subtly  touched  with  the  supernatural,  will  find  'Swallow' 
juite  to  their  liking."— Detroit  Free  Press. 

"A  thrilling  tale,  brimming  over  with  adventure,  and  full  of  the  savage  loves  and 
hates  and  fightings  of  uncivilized  peoples.  ...  In  such  stories  of  wild  adventure 
Rider  Haggard  has  no  equal,  and  '  Swallow  '  will  be  read  with  the  unflagging  interest 
we  have  given  to  the  author's  other  romances." — Picayune,  New  Orleans,  La. 

"  It  is  justly  considered  one  of  the  very  best  of  this  author's  productions.  ...  It 
is  unquestionably  a  very  entertaining  story  of  Boer  life." — Hartford  Post. 

"  A  story,  which  once  begun,  must  be  read  to  the  end." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  The  interest  grows  as  one  goes  on,  and  at  the  close  it  is  at  least  an  open  question 
whether  he  has  ever  done  a  better  piece  of  work.  ...  It  may  safely  be  said  that 
few  who  begin  the  story  will  fail  to  read  on  with  growing  interest  to  the  end,  and  that 
most  will  part  from  the  characters  with  genuine  regret." — Hartford  Times. 

"  One  of  the'things  Rider  Haggard  can  always  contrive  to  do  is  to  tell  a  thrilling 
tale,  to  keep  his  readers  trembling  on  the  verge  of  discovery  or  torn  with  anxiety  until 
the  very  last  line  of  the  book.  His  happy  hunting-ground  is  South  Africa,  and  there  is 
located  '  Swallow,' than  which  few  of  his  romances  have  been  better  reading.  We 
find  it  preferable,  for  our  own  part,  to  such  an  extravaganza  as  '  She,'  since  it  deals 
with  people  in  whom  it  is  possible  to  take  a  more  definite  interest  than  in  savages  01 
magicians.     .     .     .     A  thrilling  and  unusual  story." — Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

"Once  more  the  African  wizard  has  waved  his  enchanted  wand  and  conjured  out 
of  the  mysterious  Dark  Continent  another  fascinating  romance.  ...  It  is  ques- 
tionable if  the  author  has  ever  produced  a  story  in  all  respects  better  than  this." 

— Philadelphia  Press. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIPTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOKK. 


THE   KING'S   RIVALS. 

AN  HISTORICAL  NOVEL,  OF  THE  TIME  OF  CHARLES  It, 

By  E.  N.  BARROW. 


With   Frontispiece  by   W.   D.    Stevens. 
Crown    8vo,  Cloth,    Ornamental.       Price,    $1.25, 


The  book  ought  at  once  to  take  rank  as  one  of  the  notable  novels  ot  the  year. 
Written  in  a  style  of  singular  purity  and  elegance,  it  exemplifies  the  highest  type  of 
nistorical  romance.  .  .  .  There  is  enough  of  incident  never  to  let  the  reader's 
attention  flag,  and  the  plot  is  worked  out  with  great  skill.  .  This  book  may  oe 

safely  brought  into  the  family  circle,  and  put  into  the  hands  of  the  young.  We  bespeak 
for  it  a  large  and  delighted  circle  of  readers." — Living  Church,  Chicago. 

"This  is  an  unusually  charming  story,  the  scenes  of  which  are  laid  in  the  early 
colonial  times,  and  shifts  from  the  colonies  to  London  and  back  again.  The  hero  is  a 
lad,  picked  up  at  sea.  .  .  .  An  unusual  refinement  about  the  boy  leads  people  o 
believe  him  the  scion  of  some  aristocratic  family.  .      .      He  goes,  finally,  back  to 

England  to  claim  his  rights  and  through  some  curious  chance  becomes  the  King's 
Rival.    The  story  is  quaintly  and  beautifully  told." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

".  .  .  Many  historical  personages  appear  on  the  stage,  among  them  Charles  II., 
Lady  Castlemaine  and  the  Duchess  of  Albemarle.  The  plot  ,s  good,  and  the  story  is 
well  worked  up  and  interesting.  At  the  very  least  he  author  deserves  a  captaincy  in 
Col.  Stanley  J.  Weyman's  regiment  of  romancers." — Express,  Buffalo,  N.  Y. 


A  LOVERS  REVOLT. 

A    NOVEL    OF    THE    AMERICAN     REVOLUTION 

By  J.  W.  DE  FOREST, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  OVERLAND,"  "  KATE  BEAUMONT,"  ETC..  ETC. 


With  Frontispiece  by  George  Varian 
Crown   8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental.       Price,  $1.50 


"  The  conscientious  care  with  which  he  records  history  and  native  types  will  giv« 
his  books  a  value  somewhat  apart  from  the  amusement  to  be  got  out  of  them." 

— New  York  Times. 

"'  A  love  story  with  a  military  setting,  and  a  very  readable  one  at  that,  .  .  , 
tie  culls  enough  that  is  historically  true  to  clothe  with  interest  a  rather  strange,  but 
not  unreal  or  impossible,  drama  of  love.  The  characteis  are  all  interesting,  and  the 
book  is  good  enough  to  diffuse  contentment  while  its  400  and  more  pages  are  under 
the  eyes." — Globe,  Boston. 

"A truly  delightful  historical  novel  that  deserves  to  rank  in  'Hugh  Wynne's' 
class." — Express,  Buffalo. 

"'  A  thrilling  story  of  the  Revolutionary  War  ...  the  first  novel  in  nearly  a 
decade  from  his  erstwhile  prolific  pen.  In  the  long  silence,  however,  his  hand  has 
gained  new  skill,  and  the  reader  recalls  for  emphatic  endorsement  the  recent  praise 
of  Mr.  W.  D.  Howells  for  all  De  Forest's  work.  Thank  Heaven  fot  an  American 
who  can  no  more  sit  in  impartial  judgment  on  his  own  country  than  he  could  on  his 
own  mother." — Pilot,  Boston. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


THE   CHEVALIER  D'AURIAC. 

A  ROMANCE. 
By    S.    LEVETT   YEATS. 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE    HONOUR   OF   SAVELLI,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


1  2mo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25. 


"The  story  is  full  of  action,  it  is  alive  from  cover  to  cover,  and  is  so  compact  with  thrill- 
ing adventure  that  there  is  no  room  for  a  dull  page.  The  chevalier  tells  his  own  story,  but 
he  is  the  most  charming  of  egoists.  He  wins  our  sympathies  from  the  outset  by  his  boyish 
naivete,  his  downright  manliness  and  bravery.  .  .  .  Not  only  has  Mr.  Yeats  written  an 
excellent  tale  of  adventure,  but  he  has  shown  a  close  study  of  character  which  does  not  bor- 
row merely  from  the  trappings  of  historical  actors,  but  which  denotes  a  keen  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  and  a  shrewd  insight  into  the  workings  of  human  motives.  .  .  .  The 
fashion  of  the  period  is  kept  well  in  mind,  the  style  of  writing  has  just  that  touch  of  old- 
fashioned  formality  which  serves  to  veil  the  past  from  the  present,  and  to  throw  the  lights 
and  shadows  into  a  harmony  of  tone.  .  .  .  The  work  has  literary  quality  of  a  genuine 
sort  in  it,  which  raises  it  above  a  numerous  host  of  its  fellows  in  kind." 

— Bookman,  New  York. 

"...  A  story  of  Huguenot  days,  brim  full  of  action  that  takes  shape  in  plots,  sud- 
den surprises,  fierce  encounters,  and  cunning  intrigues.  The  author  is  so  saturated  with  the 
times  of  which  he  writes  that  the  story  is  realism  itself.  .  .  .  The  story  is  brilliant  and 
thrilling,  and  whoever  sits  down  to  give  it  attention  will  reach  the  last  page  with  regret." 

—Globe,  Boston. 

"  .  .  .  A  tale  of  more  than  usual  interest  and  of  genuine  literary  merit.  .  .  . 
The  characters  and  scenes  in  a  sense  seem  far  removed,  yet  they  live  in  our  hearts  and  seem 
contemporaneous  through  the  skill  and  philosophic  treatment  of  the  author.  Those  men  and 
women  seem  akin  to  us ;  they  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  are  impelled  by  human  motives  as  we 
are.     One  cannot  follow  the  fortunes  of  this  hero  without  feeling  refreshed  and  benefited." 

— Globe-Democrat,  St.  Louis. 

"A  book  that  may  be  recommended  to  all  those  who  appreciate  a  good,  hearty,  rollicking 
story  of  adventure,  with  lots  of  fierce  fighting  and  a  proper  proportion  of  love-making.  .  .  . 
There  is  in  his  novel  no  more  history  than  is  necessary,  and  no  tedious  detail ;  it  is  a  story 
inspired  by,  but  not  slavishly  following,  history.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full  of  incident,  and 
from  the  first  chapter  to  the  last  the  action  never  flags.  ...  In  the  Chevalier  the  author 
has  conceived  a  sympathetic  character,  for  d'Auriac  is  more  human  and  less  of  a  puppet  than 
most  heroes  of  historical  novels,  and  consequently  there  are  few  readers  who  will  not  find  en- 
joyment in  the  story  of  his  thrilling  adventures.  .  .  .  This  book  should  be  read  by  all 
who  love  a  good  story  of  adventures.     There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it." — New  York  Sun. 

"A  capital  story  of  the  Dumas- Weyman  order.  .  .  .  The  first  chapters  bring  one 
right  into  the  thick  of  the  story,  and  from  thence  on  the  interest  is  unflagging.  The  Cheva- 
lier himself  is  an  admirably  studied  character,  whose  straightforwardness  and  simplicity, 
bravery,  and  impulsive  and  reckless  chivalry,  win  the  reader's  sympathy.  D'Auriac  has 
something  of  the  intense  vitality  of  Dumas's  heroes,  and  the  delightful  improbabilities  through 
which  he  passes  so  invincibly  have  a  certain  human  quality  which  renders  them  akin  to  our 
day.     Mr.  Levett  Yeats  has  done  better  in  this  book  than  in  anything  else  he  has  written." 

— Picayune,  New  Orleans. 

"The  interest  in  the  story  does  not  lag  for  an  instant;  all  is  life  and  action.  The  pict- 
uresque historical  setting  is  admirably  painted,  and  the  characters  are  skilfully  drawn,  espe- 
cially that  of  the  king,  a  true  monarch,  a  brave  soldier,  and  a  gentleman.  The  Chevalier  is 
the  typical  hero  of  romance,  fearing  nothing  save  a  stain  on  his  honor,  and  with  such  a  hero 
there  can  not  but  be  vigor  and  excitement  in  every  page  of  the  story." 

—Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"  As  a  story  of  adventure,  pure  and  simple,  after  the  type  originally  seen  in  Dumas's 
'Three  Musketeers,'  the  book  is  well  worthy  of  high  praise." — Outlook,  New  York. 

"  We  find  all  the  fascination  of  mediaeval  France,  which  have  made  Mr.  Weyman's  stories 
such  general  favorites.  .  .  .  We  do  not  see  how  any  intelligent  reader  can  take  it  up 
without  keen  enjoyment." — Living  Church,  Chicago. 


LONQMAUS,  GKEEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YOKE. 


THE  HEART  OF  DENISE 

AND    OTHER    TALES. 

By  S.  LEVETT-YEATS. 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  CHEVALIER  d'aURIAC,"   "  THE  HONOUR  OF  SAVELLI,"  ETC. 


With  Frontispiece.    Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.25 


"The  author  of  the  fascinating  and  brilliant  story  of  'The  Chevalier  d'Auriac' 
knows  the  main  roads  and  bypaths  of  the  sixteenth  century  well,  and  in  his  latest 
essay  in  romance  he  catches  the  spirit  of  the  times  he  portrays.  With  a  few  sugges- 
tive touches  a  brilliant,  somewhat  self-willed  beauty  of  the  court  is  sketched  inDenise, 
whose  flirtations,  innocent  enough  upon  her  part,  with  the  young  but  unscrupulous 
Marquis  de  Clermont,  lead  to  a  peremptory  command  on  the  part  of  the  King  for  her 
marriage,  at  three  hours'  notice,  to  Blaise  de  Lorgnac.     .     .     . 

The  story  which  gives  the  title  to  the  book  occupies  something  over  a  third  of  the 
volume.  The  remainder  is  a  collection  of  eight  short  stories,  most  of  which  are  some- 
what melodramatic  in  character,  but  all  are  brilliantly  told." 

— Chicago  Tribune. 

i    "A  good  romantic  story,  graphically  told." 

— New  York  World. 

"A  brief,  rapid  story  of  those  picturesque  days  when  the  Flying  Squadron  fluttered 
its  silken  sails  at  the  gay  French  court  of  which  Catherine  de  Medici  was  the  ruling 
spirit— such  is  'The  Heart  of  Denise,'  which  may  be  praised  as  more  in  the  style  of 
'The  House  of  the  Wolf1  or  'A  Gentleman  of  France  '  than  anything  Mr.  Weytnan  is 
writing  nowadays."  ,  — Sentinel,  Milwaukee,  Wis. 

"A  capital  love  story.  .  .  .  It  is  a  pleasant  story  most  pleasantly  told.  The 
other  stories  in  the  book  are  of  equal  interest  ;  they  are  told  with  admirable  skill  and 
most  excellent  art."  — Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

"  We  find  more  varieties  of  talent  than  we  remember  in  his  earlier  novels.  'The 
Chevalier  d'Aunac  '  and  'The  Honour  of  Savelli,'  '  The  Heart  of  Denise  '  and  'The 
Captain  Moratti's  Last  Affair '  resemble  these  in  the  romantic  use  of  the  historical 
material  of  which  they  are  composed  ;  the  other  seven  display  a  wider  range  of  in- 
vention in  different  directions.  Taken  as  a  whole,  the  stories  here  are  considerably 
above  the  average  stories  of  better-known  writers  than  Mr.  Yeats." 

— Mail  and  Express. 

"  All  of  them  are  bright,  crisp  and  taking — generally  weird  and  fanciful,  but  told 
with  an  easy  and  fluent  swing  which  imparts  a  pleasant  flavor  to  the  most  inconse- 
quential of  their  details."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"There  are  many  well-told  adventures  ....  with  a  defined  originality  and 
manner."  —Baltimore  Sun. 

"  Mr.  Yeats  writes  well  ;  in  his  Indian  tales  there  is  distinct  touch  of  cleverness. 
The  story  that  gives  its  name  to  the  book  is  Weyman  all  over.  There  is  a  charming, 
if  shrewish,  heroine,  a  misjudged  hero,  a  courtly  villain,  and  the  scene  is  laid  in  the 
France  of  the  Medicis."  — Journal,  Pkovidence,  R.I. 

"  The  story  of  Denise  is  interesting  and  at  times  highly  dramatic  " 

— St.  Louis  Republic 

"  He  has  romance  and  pretty  turn  for  dramatic  episodes.  .  .  .  '  The  Captain 
Moratti's  Last  Affair1  is  a  delightful  tale  of  Southern  villainy,  and  drama,  and  the 
longest  story  in  the  book,  'The  Heart  of  Denise, '  justifies  its  length  by  its  romantic 
and  thrilling  character.  The  Indian  tales  show  that  while  Mr.  Yeats  is  far  below  Mr. 
Kipling  in  the  treatment  of  the  material  to  be  found  among  the  natives,  he  is  at  any 
rate  clever  and  readable.     His  vignette  of  landscape  are  drawn  with  special  grace." 

—  N.  Y.  Tribune. 

LONGMANS.  GREEN,  &  00.,  91-93  EIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK. 


PARSON    KELLY 

A   NEW    HISTORICAL    NOVEL 

By  A.   E.  W.   MASON 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE   COURTSHIP   OF    MORRICE   BUCKLER  ;' 

AND 

ANDREW  LANG 


With   Frontispiece,  Crown  8vo,   Cloth,   Price,  $1.50 

"  '  Parson  Kelly '  is  a  beguiling  variation  on  the  old  delightful  theme.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Lang  has  brought  to  the  composition  of  this  novel  so  much  historical  lore, 
so  much  insight  into  the  Jacobite  comedy,  so  much  sympathy  for  the  actors  in  it, 
both  major  and  obscure,  that  the  book  is  alive  with  true  romance.  The  Prince 
scarcely  appears,  yet  the  air  of  plot  and  counterplot,  of  brave  deeds  and  shabby 
intrigue,  in  which  he  and  his  house  are  enveloped,  breathes  from  every  page. 
Historical  knowledge  and  imaginative  power  are  in  '  Parson  Kelly  '  blended  into 
a  remarkably  compact  and  plausible  unit." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  We  conscientiously  refrain  from  giving  the  prospective  reader  any  foretaste 
of  the  exceeding  charm  of  this  delightful  volume.  That  charm  is  continuous  and 
in  crescendo  from  the  initial  to  the  final  page,  and  it  is  impossible  to  conceive 
that  the  most  exacting  should  have  a  shadow  of  disappointment  with  anything 
about  the  book  either  in  its  personnel,  wThich  is  very  beautiful,  or  in  its  literary 
material,  which  is  exceptionally  fascinating.  The  only  ground  of  regret  is  that 
it  comes  to  an  end.  It  should  easily  rank  with  the  most  popular  publications  of 
the  year." — Home  Journal,  New  York. 

"This  is  an  extremely  clever  novel;  witty,  humorous,  animated  and  pictu- 
resque, and  so  full  of  dramatic  situations  that  it  would  make  a  fine  play.  .  .  . 
The  characterization  is  strong,  the  narrative  brisk,  and  in  style  and  incident  the 
novel  possesses  highly  attractive  qualities.  A  very  pretty  love-story  runs 
through  the  book. " — Chronicle-Telegram,  Pittsburg. 

"  The  acute  and  rollicking  Parson,  with  his  coterie  of  friends,  his  love  of  ad- 
venture, his  chivalry,  is  the  most  entertaining  of  intriguers.  .  .  .  We  have  a 
nearer  acquaintance  with  the  learned  and  eccentric  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Mon- 
tagu. We  are  hurried  through  the  balls  and  routs  of  the  early  part  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  and  recognize  Mr.  Lang's  thorough  study  of  the  times,  and  Mr. 
Mason's  dramatic  faculty  of  plot  construction." — Sun,  Baltimore,  Md. 

"  Nick  Wogan  is  such  an  Irishman  as  Lever  loved  to  draw,  a  soldier  of  fort- 
une, with  a  ready  tongue  and  a  ready  sword.  .  .  .  The  reader  falls  in  love 
with  him  at  once,  and  looks  for  his  name  at  the  beginning  of  each  chapter,  sure 
that  no  page  can  be  dull  upon  which  the  name  stands.  But,  in  truth,  '  dull '  is 
not  a  word  to  be  mentioned  in  connection  with  any  portion  of  the  book  whose  wit 
and  charming  style  revives  memories  of  the  old  masters  of  fiction.  '  Parson 
Kelly  '  should  have  a  great  success  if  success  is  measured  by  real  merit." 

— New  Orleans  Times-Democrat. 

"  This  novel  holds  one's  attention  closely  by  reason  of  the  skill  with  which  we 
are  constantly  kept  in  the  presence  of  some  unsolved  mvstery.  The  scene  is 
England  in  the  time  of  George  I.,  and  the  principal  characters  are  conspirators 
in  the  Jacobite  cause  trying  to  place  the  Pretender  on  the  throne.  ...  A 
fascinating  character  in  the  book  is  Nick  Wogan,  the  friend  of  Kelly,  the  con- 
fident of  his  love-affairs  and  his  avenger  on  Scrope.  The  plot  thus  barely  out- 
lined is  exceedingly  intricate  and  ingenious.  .  .  .  The  style  is  attractive, 
and  displays,  particularly,  perhaps,  in  the  dialogues,  piquancies  such  as  one 
often  meets  with  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Lang." 

— New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YOKE. 


SAVROLA 


A  TALE  OF  THE   REVOLUTION   IN   LAURANlA 

By  WINSTON   SPENCER  CHURCHILL 

AUTHOR    OF    "  THE    RIVER    WAR  :    AN    ACCOUNT    OF   THE    RECONQUEST   OF 

THE   SOUDAN,"    "  THE   STORY    OF   THE   MALAKAND 

FIELD   FORCE,    1897,"   ETC.,    ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  350  Pages,  $1.25 


"  The  tale  is  brief  and  it  is  briskly  told.  The  situation  celebrated  is  one 
from  which  the  author  has  had  difficulty  in  extracting  his  hero  and  heroine  with- 
out some  smirching  of  their  skirts.  But  the  difficulty  is  neatly  overcome.  .  .  . 
Altogether  '  Savrola  '  is  a  very  promising  story." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  Mr.  Churchill  is  a  powerful  and  vigorous  writer,  with  a  clear  style  and  a 
dash  in  story-telling  which  shows  forth  in  his  work  not  less  than  in  his  corre- 
spondence and  his  military  history.  It  is  a  welcome  addition  to  the  list  of  novels 
of  adventure." — New  York  World. 

"  A  dashing  sort  of  a  tale,  set  forth  with  a  good  deal  of  elan.  .  .  .  The 
story  is  bright  and  taking,  the  dialogue  unusually  witty,  without  being  forced." 

— Free  Press,  Detroit. 

"  This  tale  of  the  revolt  of  the  citizens  of  an  imaginary  republic  against  a 
Dictator  is  a  spirited  variant  of  the  Zenda-royalty  school.  ...  It  has  a 
good  plot,  a  love  interest,  of  course,  and  all  the  swiftness  of  action  that  revolu- 
tionary clays  conjure  up  in  the  mind." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  The  story  is  well  written  in  picturesque,  forcible  style,  and  will  hold  the  in- 
terest of  its  readers  from  the  first  page  to  the  last." — Times,  New  York. 

"  The  book  is  interesting,  well  planned  and  filled  with  action." 

— Post,  Chicago. 

"  It  is  a  carefully  written  and  critical  biography  that  will  appeal  to  all  mem- 
bers of  the  profession." — Argonaut,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

"  A  story  full  of  action,  told  with  force  and  vigor." 

— Post,  Washington,  D.  C. 

"  The  story  is  in  the  main  a  stirring  account  of  warlike  movements,  which 
are  well  handled  by  the  author  .  .  .  another  important  element  of  the  story 
is  the  romance  which  threads  the  whole  and  adds  charm  to  all.  The  style  is 
dignified,  excellent  and  attractive,  and  the  interest  of  the  story  is  fully  sustained 
to  a  thrilling  series  of  climaxes  at  the  close.  " — Progress,  Minneapolis. 

"  The  story  needs  no  factitious  aids.  It  challenges  attention  by  genuine 
merit.  It  is  a  clever  tale,  briskly  told.  It  has  strength  and  force  and  is  at  times 
brilliant.  The  action  of  the  story  takes  place  in  an  imaginary  state,  which  is 
under  the  dominion  of  an  unscrupulous  dictator.  The  dialogue  is  crisp  and  the 
description  of  the  revolution  vivid  and  vigorous." — Brooklyn  Times. 

"  The  narrative  is  distinctly  unique  and  cleverly  put  together.  The  char- 
acters are  finely  pictured.     .     .     .     The  interest  throughout  is  sustained." 

— Herald,  St.  Joseph,  Mo. 

"  The  story  ...  is  one  with  plenty  of  '  go  '  and  action,  quite  well  worth 
the  reading.  .  .  .  The  description  of  the  battle  and  overthrow  of  the  dictator 
President  shows  decided  strength  in  its  portrayal  of  a  graphic  and  realistic 
scene."  — The  American,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  00.,  91-93   PIFTH  AVE„  NEW  YOKE. 


^EUNIVERS// 


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University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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